


Spy Games

by screamingsongbird16



Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: (mostly) Humor, Multi, Spy Shenanigans, What Happens at D-Agency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingsongbird16/pseuds/screamingsongbird16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpses into life at D-Agency.  Because even though they're lethal super spies, they're still just boys who are practically brothers, and how could a family like this not be crazy and dysfunctional in the best kind of way?</p>
<p>Chapter 18: Eat It Or Wear It</p>
<p>How D-Agency deals with picky eaters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Not Overanalyze

Set right after Episode 2

1: Let’s Not Overanalyze

There was a broken cup on the table when the D Agency boys awoke, just before noon, to start their day. Last night had been another late night, spent honing their skills, manipulating and mingling in crowds, coercing strangers, being the unseen hand that guided others’ actions. Maybe they’d stayed out a little later than usual, and maybe their manipulation games had been a shade or two crueler than usual, but they had to make up for missing a hara-kiri show somehow.

In any official branch of the military, staying out so late, and in turn waking so late would have been unthinkable. But D Agency recognized that night was the best time to train their particular talents and adjusted their sleep schedules accordingly. If Lt. Colonel Yuuki wanted them awake earlier, he typically gave prior notice.

Odagiri was the first to arrive at the D Agency kitchen/cafeteria, thus the first to notice the cup. He frowned at it in slight puzzlement, immediately noting the anomaly.Several facts registered instantly in his mind.

Firstly, it wasn’t a D Agency cup. All their dinnerware, while neat and serviceable, was nondescript and utilitarian. This cup was a knock off of fancy porcelain, and one that had probably been overpriced beyond that. Not the kind of thing the agency stocked.  


Secondly, it wasn’t like his colleagues to leave junk lying around. They cleaned up after themselves as a rule of thumb. Organization was a major part of their lives and spread to encompass every part of their lives. From the strict organization of their minds, to their consistency in making sure every concealed weapon was in its place, every hidden tool tucked cleverly out of sight, organization ruled the spies’ lives. Not a one of them was a slob or prone to leaving his things around. If any of them had broken the cup, they would have disposed of it without delay.  


Thirdly, not all the pieces of the cup were even there. The bottom of the cup was intact, mostly, but parts of the sides and all of the rim were missing and were nowhere in sight. A quick look in the cafeteria trash cans showed they were not there either.  


And lastly, the cup wasn’t clean. A tacky-looking viscous substance coated the bottom and glinted with a slight sheen.  


“What’s that?” asked Miyoshi, the next of the spies to saunter into the cafeteria, Jitsui and Kaminaga at his heels.  


“See for yourself,” said Odagiri, instead of stating the obvious and saying that it was a broken cup, or summarizing his observations of it. Miyoshi and the other spies could gather that same information faster than Odagiri could summarize it.  


Indeed, Kaminaga made a beeline for the trashcans as the other two moved in for a closer look. He signaled them with a slight shake of his head that no, there were no other pieces here.  


“Why is it here?” asked Hatano, who’d come into the cafeteria in time to catch most of what was going on.  


“Maybe it’s a test,” Jitsui murmured, peering into the broken cup. “What’s this residue inside?”  


“It smells faintly sulfuric,” Miyoshi noted.  


“Could it have been used to mix small quantities of explosives?” Kaminaga wondered and started to reach for it. Then he stopped himself just before Miyoshi seized his wrist to stop him.  


“Fingerprints,” said Miyoshi sternly.  


Kaminaga quickly withdrew his hand, nodding.  


If this was a test from Lt. Colonel Yuuki, none of them wanted to be responsible for them all failing.  


“Here. Gloves.” Tazaki appeared from out of nowhere, like a magician, and produced a pair of supple, brown leather gloves.  


Miyoshi accepted them with a nod of thanks. “Jitsui, check under the table. Make sure nothing’s rigged beneath it. Fukumoto, fetch a swab and the fingerprinting kit. Amari, get some string, a ring, and adhesive.”  


“We’re airlifting it? Really?” Amari asked in mild disbelief.  


“Do you want to risk failing one of the Demon Lord’s tests?” returned Miyoshi.  


“Fair point.”  


The spies hastened to obey their defacto leader’s orders.  


“Nothing under the table,” Jitsui reported. “No drill marks either. If it’s connected to any explosives, they’re small enough to fit under the bottom of the cup.”  


“That’s plenty of room for compounds made to just make smoke or noise,” said Miyoshi.  


“True. Lt. Colonel Yuuki wouldn’t want us accidently burning down D Agency,” said Jitsui with a smile.  


“String, ring, and adhesive.” Amari had returned. He passed said items to Miyoshi who held up a hand to stop him from handing them off.  


“If you wouldn’t mind.”  


Amari looked more amused than anything, but complied. He tore off a couple strips of tape then climbed onto a chair, and used them to affix the ring to the ceiling. Then he threaded one end of the string through it and passed it down to Miyoshi. Miyoshi put on Tazaki’s gloves and then carefully tied the string around the broken cup.  


“Everyone back,” said Kaminaga, who’d taken it upon himself to grab the other end of the string. Everyone stepped clear of the table and the broken cup. Hatano and Jitsui even hopped behind the counter and peeked cautiously over it. If there was anything under the cup, no one wanted to get any trace of it on his suit. That would mark failure in Yuuki’s books and they all knew it.  


Then there was a creak of footsteps from the hallway.  


“What are you all doing?” asked Sakuma in a long suffering voice, that said he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know the answer.  


“Good morning, lieutenant,” said Miyoshi. “If you wouldn’t mind standing back for a moment.”  


“What? Why?” Sakuma instantly looked suspicious. After yesterday’s events, none of them could really blame him. They had, after all, almost coerced him into committing hara-kiri, and for nothing more than Miyoshi’s own amusement. And to send a message to Muto and those other idiots at the General Staff Offices, but that would have just been an added bonus.  


“Please, just stay back,” said Miyoshi, coolly taking Sakuma by the wrist and pulling him back to the doorway. “Kaminaga, if you please.”  


Kaminaga pulled on the opposite end of the string. And because of the rudimentary pulley system they’d jerry-rigged, the cup rose straight off the table and into the air.  


Every spy in the room had tensed in preparation of a loud bang, or small explosion. It would be a lie to say they weren’t disappointed when nothing happened. The cup simply rose in the air, suspended by the string, and dangled in place.  


“Anti-climactic,” huffed Hatano, stepping out from behind the counter.  


“Better to be overcautious than to have to suffer the Demon Lord’s punishments,” said Jitsui.  


“What are you all even talking about?” Sakuma asked. “What are you doing to that cup?”  


Miyoshi stepped forward to grab the cup and untie it. Fukumoto stepped forward to dab the swab he’d brought inside, and handed off the fingerprinting kit he’d brought to the shorter spy. Miyoshi set the cup back down on the table and opened the kit.  


“You’re fingerprinting it? And testing the contents?” asked Sakuma, and suddenly he sounded like he was holding back laughter. “Why don’t you let me save you the trouble? The last thing that cup held was a raw egg. Colonel Muto uses that as a hangover cure. His fingerprints will be the main ones you find on there. And a few of mine. I picked it up on the way out of his office this morning, after reporting the success of yesterday’s operation.”  


Silence filled the kitchen as every spy’s eyes focused on Sakuma. The lieutenant shifted, clearly a little uncomfortable under so many intense stares.  


“The colonel became flustered and dropped it – as well as every other object on and around his desk,” said Sakuma.  


And every spy mentally translated that to mean the colonel had lost it and started throwing and breaking everything in reach, after Sakuma reported the successful raid on John Gordon’s house. Sly smiles began spreading across their faces.  


Then Hatano had to ask, “But why’d you bring it here?”  


Something almost like a smirk crossed Sakuma’s face very briefly. “As a consolation prize, for missing the show.”  


“Oh? Which one?” Hatano quipped.  


“Dealer’s choice,” returned the lieutenant.  


Amusement lit everyones’ faces. Miyoshi especially looked as though he’d just been given a New Year’s gift early. Their liaison was turning out to be, or at least turning into, someone much less insufferable, and much more entertaining than they’d ever thought he’d be.

Notes:  
Did Sakuma bring them the cup to flaunt getting out of their plans for his hara-kiri? Or as a trophy/goodwill gesture, so they could vicariously appreciate Colonel Muto’s tantrum? What do you think?  
More importantly, is Miyoshi subtly flirting with the lieutenant? And do the others suspect?


	2. Rule of Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in training, no one was really surprised when a friendship was struck up between Hatano and Jitsui, despite the differences in their personalities.

            As a general rule, when placed in a random group, people gravitate toward those closest to their own age and spend more time with them.  There are always exceptions, but those are exceptions rather than the norm.  Which was why no one was really surprised when a friendship was struck up between Hatano and Jitsui, despite the differences in their personalities. 

            The friendship formed back in training.  Even then, it had been clear that they were the youngest candidates for D-Agency.  Discussing their real backgrounds was prohibited so no one asked, but it was generally believed that neither Jitsui nor Hatano had attended a university, or at the very least had never graduated from one.  Both looked too young. 

            For the most part, people didn’t care about their age.  They didn’t have the energy to.  But in every group of a certain size, there’s always someone with something to prove.  And if they didn’t have the means to actually prove whatever it was, they tried to fake it.  A common way of doing that is by asserting dominance over the weaker members of the group.  In other words, by bullying.

            That was back in the early days, when trainees were dropping like flies, back when they were relocating their training center every week, so that in case some of the dropped out candidates had a grudge and wanted to sell information on the program, the damage they could do would be minimal.  Their numbers had already been cut by a third.  Lt. Colonel Yuuki had told them that no more than five people among the whole group were expected to still be standing by the time he made the final cuts. 

            There was one man by the name of Zakurai, who took that to mean five people and only five people were going to be left when all was said and done.  And he decided that the best way to make sure he was one of those five people was to drive away his competition.

            Hatano and Jitsui, as the youngest and smallest trainees, were his first targets.

            It was late in the evening, sometime in the second month of their training, when Zakurai decided to make his move.  He’d made it no secret that he had it out for the two youngest candidates from the start, taking petty actions against them like bumping into them and flipping their trays over at mealtimes, shouldering them roughly when they passed by each other, liberally using his elbows to leave bruises, and doing small things to sabotage their work.  And though everyone saw what he was doing, no one stepped in.

            Their reasons for inaction varied.  Some simply didn’t care.  They had lost so many trainees already.  They would lose many, many more.  What did it matter if the competition got slimmed down a little more outside of classes. 

            Others approved of Zakurai’s actions.  They wanted as many other trainees gone, with as little effort on their own part as possible.  And if Zakurai crossed the line and got himself expelled as well, so much the better.

            Then there were others that disapproved but chose not to act anyway.  Chances of short, scrawny Hatano, and baby-faced Jitsui making it to the final five were very slim odds.  Zakurai outlasting them was more likely.  Some feared drawing Zakurai’s ire on themselves.  Others didn’t, but also didn’t see the point in making an enemy if they didn’t have to. 

            Back then, even the ones who would eventually make it into D-Agency only barely knew Hatano and Jitsui.  Later, after they became friends, some of them would feel mildly ashamed of themselves when they thought back on their inaction.  But most thought that things had turned out well enough in the end and there was no need for regrets.

            Jitsui and Hatano often hung out after hours, back in training.  The two of them playing cards, chess, or shogi together were common sights.  Just as common as Jitsui sitting by a lamp reading, while Hatano sat curled up in the next chair over, staring out the window, or sometimes napping.  It was rare to see one without the other in those days.  So when Zakurai stumbled upon Hatano, by himself, he decided it was a good chance to make his move.

            Trying to take serious enemy action against them when they were together would never have ended in Zakurai’s favor. He knew it too.  Everyone had seen everyone else’s hand-to-hand combat abilities.  And despite their small sizes, Hatano and Jitsui did surprisingly well, even when they were matched up against larger opponents.

            Everyone who couldn’t hold their own in a simple fist fight had been cut by now.  But that was not to say everyone left was equal.  In addition, their training fights had been strictly monitored.  The point of them were to use nonlethal techniques, and no martial arts teacher wanted his students crippling each other simply to work out a pecking order.  So, with so many holds barred, it was hard for them to tell who the best fighters actually were.  But Zakurai was a big man.  The top of Hatano’s head didn’t quite reach his shoulder level.  And he was in excellent physical shape.  The muscles on his arms made them thicker than Jitsui’s legs.  In his mind, in a fight with either of the younger trainees, he held all the advantages.

            So when he found Hatano, without Jitsui, in one of the training rooms, he saw it as his golden opportunity.  Even better, Hatano was clearly worn out from sparring against another trainee.  A man named Narimo, who had been struggling lately, with the addition of knife techniques and disarmment techniques that had recently been added to their curriculum.

            “Thanks, Hatano,” Narimo said, slapping Hatano on one shoulder in a friendly motion.  “I think I’m getting better at the timing now.”

            “Perfect technique is essential,” said Hatano, and it was hard to tell if he agreed or disagreed with Narimo’s self assessment.  “So practice the techniques until you have them perfect.  Timing falls into place easier then.”

            “I will.  I . . .” Narimo trailed off when he saw Zakurai leering at them.

            “Getting help from the elementary school student, Narimo?” asked Zakurai.  “Are you really stooping that low?”

            Narimo muttered something unintelligible and looked away.

            Hatano’s heavily lidded eyes took him in.  Zakurai could almost see him running calculations about his situation.

            “So what were you teaching him, baby boy?” Zakurai asked.  “How to change your diapers?”

            “We were practicing knife disarming skills,” said Hatano.  “But we’re finished now.  Excuse me.”

            Hatano made to leave.

            “Hey now, what’s your hurry?” asked Zakurai, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him back into place.  “You’re already here, and in your workout clothes.  Why don’t you spar a few rounds with me?”

            Hatano was running mental calculations again.  Zakurai could tell.  He was weighing his options, trying to figure out if he could save face if he declined, or if Zakurai would even let him decline.  He also took into account who else was in the training room, trying to judge if any of them could be a potential ally, or worse, a hazard.

            There were a couple other trainees present who Zakurai was in fact wary of.  But he doubted any of them would stick up for the tiny trainee.  They’d never done so before, and he had no reason to think any of them really wanted the young spy sticking around. 

            His suspicions were confirmed when the man who went by the name Fukumoto looked at them with appraising eyes, then turned and walked out of the room.  Miyoshi, the other one who Zakurai was wary of, simply crossed his arms and leaned against a wall to watch.

            “Well,” said Hatano, “there were a few techniques that I –“

            Then Hatano attacked without warning.  In midsentence, without tensing or showing any intention of what he was planning, the boy leapt into the air and twisted.  One foot swung around and connected with Zakurai’s face.  Zakurai heard a loud crunch and then felt warm liquid running down his face.

            “Damn it!” Zakurai howled.

            “Oops.”

            Zakurai saw red as he went on the attack.  Much to his annoyance, Hatano was fast.  Several times, he twisted aside, dodging Zakurai’s punches.  Whatever fatigue the shorter boy felt from the day’s training, and the extra exercise he’d put in helping Narimo didn’t show, as his adrenaline kicked in.  Zakurai’s fury rose as he realized that he couldn’t even touch Hatano.  Meanwhile, the opposite wasn’t true.  Hatano landed several quick punches to painful areas.

            The whole time, his eyes remained half lidded, and a smirk stayed on his face.

            Zakurai started to worry.  Behind his anger, he was starting to realize that he’d miscalculated.  He wanted to deny it.  There was no way this shorty could be a better fighter than him!  But he couldn’t lay a finger on Hatano!

            Then the tables suddenly turned.  Hatano staggered, for no reason that Zakurai could see at first.  The smaller boy hissed in pain and went down, the smirk finally leaving his face.  He recovered quickly, rolling as he hit the mats and scurrying back a few steps, turning his body so that he could face both his attackers.

            “I thought perhaps you would like to work on techniques to counter sneak attacks as well as techniques for launching them,” said Narimo.

            Whatever Narimo had done had clearly inflicted lasting pain.  Hatano was holding one side.  And his angry expression couldn’t completely hide his pain. 

            “How kind of you,” he growled.  He clenched his fists.  Then took a step back, catching on to how Zakurai had been trying to get behind him.

            “Well, this is certainly interesting.”  Suddenly Miyoshi was stepping forward.  “It’s almost like a game, actually.  A perfect game for future spies like some of us are going to be.”             “What are you talking about, Miyoshi?” growled Zakurai. 

            “The move Narimo just made,” said Miyoshi.  “Anyone watching would have thought Narimo wished to remain a neutral party at first.  Then, after seeing the schooling Hatano gave you, the logical party for him to ally himself with would have been Hatano.  Yet for unknown reasons, he decided to ally himself with you.  In some ways, that’s very similar to international politics.  If you don’t believe me, just look at the state of world politics during the Great War.”

            “Do you have a point?” asked Zakurai.  “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

            “Have you not been paying attention?” asked Miyoshi.  “I thought my point was rather clear.  That this is like a game.  One that just got interesting.  One which I too would like to play.”

            Zakurai smirked.  “So you want to join the winning side?”

            “Doesn’t everyone?  Isn’t that the point of choosing to play this game?” asked Miyoshi.

            “Well, welcome aboard,” said Narimo.

            Miyoshi gave a slight cough.  One of those noises that was more to break up the current conversation and less about his throat being irritated.  “I think you misunderstand.”

            “What?”

            Miyoshi looked at Narimo despairingly.  “Despite inventing the game, you really aren’t very good at it, are you?”

            “What do you mean?’ asked Narimo.

            “It’s not simply about choosing which side you think will win,” said Miyoshi.  “It’s about choosing which side you want to win.  If, at least, you are as I am, a superior force, whose presence on either side would give his side an insurmountable advantage.”

            “Huh?” Zakurai asked, annoyed.  “You overestimate yourself, Miyoshi.  You think you could win a fight against me and Narimo, with only this kid on your side?  Don’t be so stupid.”

            “I’m not stupid.  In fact, I’m clearly smarter than you.  And you should take note, I never actually said I intended to fight you,” said Miyoshi.

            “So are you on our side or not?” demanded Narimo impatiently.

            “I’m going to go with not,” said Miyoshi.  “And here is why.  Beating up Hatano, with the two of you, would not be amusing.  I would gain nothing from it.  Neither of you are worthy as allies to me.  At best, I could use you as pawns, and discard you.  But I figured out a much more entertaining conclusion to this round, and one that results in both of you being removed from the board without any direct action from me.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            Miyoshi closed his eyes and shrugged, smiling like fox.  “Well.  I thought it would be more interesting to watch him deal with you than to deal with you myself.”

            “What?  Who –“

            And then Zakurai went down howling.  Something crunched and squelched.  Everyone in the room heard it.  Then the next thing they knew, Jitsui was picking himself up off the ground from the slide tackle-deadfall combination move he’d just used on Zakurai.  And Zakurai was rolling on the mats, howling, bleeding from the puncture wound in his leg.

            “That’s a compound fracture,” remarked the returning Fukumoto, looking on with muted interest.

            “Hi Jitsui,” said Hatano.  He greeted his friend as casually as if they were meeting for lunch.

            “Hi Hatano,” said Jitsui.  Then he looked at the other trainee who’d sided against his friend and his voice dropped about fifty degrees in coldness while somehow still staying gentle and polite.  “Hello Narimo.”

            Narimo started backing away from the angelic little boy, whose face gave away absolutely no trace of the seething anger beneath his serene expression.  Or any murderous intent besides.

            “Hey.  Wait.  I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Narimo. 

            “You didn’t mean anything by what?” asked Jitsui.  His inquiry was so polite, it could even be considered sweet.  And his smile . . . that angel smile was terrifying.

            “Any of it!  I swear.  It was a game.  Like Miyoshi said.  It was just a joke,” said Narimo.

            “Jitsui,” said Miyoshi.  “Hatano.  If I could make a suggestion?”

            “Of course,” Jitsui all but chirped.

            “Let him go,” said Miyoshi.”

            The two young teens looked at Miyoshi curiously, working out his reasoning.

            Then Jitsui looked at Narimo and smiled so brightly that his eyes crinkled at the corners.  “Goodbye, Narimo.”

            Narimo fled.  Or at least he tried to.  He tripped over the foot that Hatano slid into his way and face planted on the floor.

            “It was so very kind of you,” said Hatano.  “Helping me work on techniques for countering sneak attacks.”

            Narimo stumbled back to his feet and continued to make his quick exit.  He even reached the door before Jitsui stopped him with a call.

            “One more thing, Narimo-kun,” said Jitsui.  His angel smile was back in place.  _“Never sleep again.”_

Notes:

A compound fracture is when you break a bone and the broken bone breaks your skin. Technical diagnosis for Zakurai is: it sucks to be him. On so many levels.

Official information on the ages of our boys is top secret, so the only one who really knows how old they are is Lt. Colonel Yuuki. But based on their heights, the way they act, the way they look, and the assignments we’ve seen them get, I’m guessing that Hatano and Jitsui are the youngest ones, somewhere in their teens. Odagiri, Fukumoto, and Amari seem to be the oldest in the group, in their mid to late twenties, while Miyoshi, Kaminaga, and Tazaki are somewhere in between. I could be wrong, of course, but Miyoshi in particular looks on the young side, and in the first two episodes, I noticed him gravitating toward the younger two.

Not that I’m saying that’s the reason he took Hatano’s side against Zakurai and Narimo. Someone like Miyoshi clearly would have sized up every other trainee there. He probably even ranked them on a scale of usefulness and capability on a 100 point scale. The score that he assigned to Hatano would have more than doubled the scores that he assigned to both Zakurai and Narimo combined. That, even without the knowledge that Fukumoto had obviously gone to get Jitsui (who also scored high on the Miyoshi usefulness scale) would have made up his mind on who he wanted to side with.

And yes, this was the first incarnation of their Joker Game. They revised it later to be based around cards rather than people getting crippled. Because they’re civilized like that.

I hope you enjoyed reading! If you did, please leave me some love!


	3. Small Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lieutenant? Are you alright? You look a bit flushed.”  
> Sakuma turned to see Kaminaga returning to the dorm, his hair damp from a shower, and a towel draped around his shoulders.  
> Unable to find words, Sakuma pointed at the bed where the two youngest spies were cuddled together in their sleep.  
> Kaminaga followed his finger then looked back at Sakuma, a confused expression on his face.  
> “They’re sharing a bed!” hissed Sakuma.  
> Kaminaga nodded. “And?”

            Sakuma usually rose early, before the spies.  Most of the time, it was still dark when he woke, and he was dressed and gone before the spies even thought about getting up.  It was unusual for him to see them as anything more than shadowy lumps under their blankets on those mornings, since the curtains were drawn and he didn’t turn on any lights out of common courtesy.

            But one day, Sakuma didn’t have to get up early.  There was an assembly behing held that he wasn’t required to go to.  Essentially, Sakuma had the morning off.  For one glorious morning, he was allowed to sleep in late!

            He should have known better than to think it would all go smoothly.

            He did, in fact, get to sleep late.  The spies didn’t do anything to wake him up.  They all slept late almost every day anyway.  And they were as quiet as shadows when they did get up, so Sakuma didn’t hear a thing. 

            Half of them were even still asleep when Sakuma finally rose.  Enough sunlight was streaming in through the window for him to be able to clearly see which beds were empty and which were occupied. 

            It wasn’t until after he was dressed and about to leave the room to go down for breakfast that he noticed one of the beds that wasn’t empty actually had two spies sleeping in it.

            Hatano and Jitsui were curled up, side by side.  Hatano was hugging Jitsui in his sleep, as though the other spy was a teddy bear.  And Jitsui was curled around Hatano, his head resting on Hatano’s chest, like it was a pillow.

            Sakuma gaped.  Because on the one hand, the picture they cut was kind of . . . adorable.  They were both young enough that they could and did pass as children on missions, and they looked even younger when they were sleeping.  There was no way to deny how cute they looked when they were curled up together like that.

            But on the other hand, Sakuma knew approximately how old they actually were.  They had passed the age where children could innocently cling to each other in their sleep some years ago.  Despite the way they looked, the two could actually be considered men.  And it went against everything Sakuma knew to be proper for two men to be sharing a bed, curled up together like that.

            He felt his cheeks blush just looking at them.

            “Lieutenant?  Are you alright?  You look a bit flushed.”

            Sakuma turned to see Kaminaga returning to the dorm, his hair damp from a shower, and a towel draped around his shoulders.

            Unable to find words, Sakuma pointed at the bed where the two youngest spies were cuddled together in their sleep.

            Kaminaga followed his finger then looked back at Sakuma, a confused expression on his face.

            “They’re sharing a bed!” hissed Sakuma.

            Kaminaga nodded.  “And?”

            “They – look at them.”

            “Yes.  They’re cute when they’re asleep,” said Kaminaga.  “It’s almost enough to make you forget how horrible they are when they’re awake.”

            “Not that they’re asleep anymore,” commented Miyoshi, and Sakuma jumped.  Because Miyoshi’s voice had come from the bed just beside him and he had been certain that particular spy had been asleep.  In fact, it looked like Miyoshi was still asleep.  His covers were still draped over him, and his eyes were still closed.  The only part of him that moved was his mouth.  “Not that any of us are asleep anymore.”

            Sakuma’s blush deepened as he realized that by speaking with Kaminaga, they must have woken everyone still in bed up. 

            “Noisy people go away,” muttered Jitsui, rolling slightly to bury his face against his makeshift pillow.

            “I don’t feel like dealing with you.  I’m just going to pretend I’m still asleep,” said Hatano, like Miyoshi, not moving except for his lips.

            Sakuma’s cheeks burned hotter.  “You’re both grown men.  Well.  Nearly grown men.”

            “If you don’t have a point I’m actually going back to sleep,” said Hatano.  “You’re annoying.”

            “And you’re shameless.”

            “Why are you suddenly making a big deal about this now?” asked Kaminaga.

            “What?” Sakuma asked.

            “You do realize those two have shared a bed every night since we moved in here, don’t you?” Kaminaga said.

            “Apparently he didn’t,” said Miyoshi when Sakuma just gaped.  The older spy finally sat up to look Sakuma in the eyes.  “Even so, I fail to see what the problem is.”

            “They might look young but they’re old enough that it’s indecent.”

            “In what way?”

            Sakuma flushed even harder.

            “They obviously haven’t been doing anything in this dorm.”  Miyoshi smirked.  “Do you think you would be able to sleep through _that?_   That any of us would be able to sleep through that?”

            That was true, realized Sakuma and some of his suspicions cleared away.  “But then why –“

            “Because if they don’t, then in the fall, winter, and even early spring, Jitsui’s teeth chatter all night in his sleep.  No one else can sleep over the sound of him shivering,” supplied Kaminaga.

            “Oh.”  Sakuma felt a little stupid now that he was faced with a practical reason for this.  “Well then.  I guess . . . I guess it’s not so bad.  If they’ve got a real reason for . . . for that.”

            “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care what you think about me.  But if you’re satisfied with that explanation, will you hurry up and leave?” asked Hatano.  He still hadn’t opened his eyes or moved any muscles other than his mouth.  “It’s hard to even pretend I’m asleep with you standing there, talking about how I’m having sex with –“

            Sakuma literally fled.

            “Huh.  I should have used that word sooner,” said Hatano.  “I should have known it would scare him away.  You’ve got your work cut out for you, Miyoshi.”

            “Weren’t you going back to sleep?” asked Miyoshi.

            “Oh?  Is someone mad because the other spies have caught onto his not so subtle attempts at flirting?  Does someone think – ouch!” Hatano jerked in surprise.

            Jitsui had bit him through his nightshirt.

            “Bad pillow stop talking,” mumbled Jitsui against his chest.

            Hatano absently patted the top of Jitsui’s head and gave Kaminaga and Miyoshi the stink eye as they snickered.  “I’m going back to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Notes:

 

            Sakuma realized after he’d fled and only after he’d fled that Miyoshi had only said Hatano and Jitsui weren’t doing anything in the dorms.  And that he hadn’t said anything about anywhere else.  But he decided to never bring up that topic again.

 

 

I saw episode 9 today!  And I loved it!  No spoilers right here, but it was amazing!  And I think I’m going to have to do one more chapter about my mini angels Hatano and Jitsui because of it before moving on to some of the others.  Please check back for an update soon!

 

Update:  The very talented artist Jimmi has drawn this piece of fanart for me: [http://i-dedicate-this-kill-to-the-fans.tumblr.com/post/146797301984/after-i-read-this-fanfic-i-couldnt-resist-drawing ](http://i-dedicate-this-kill-to-the-fans.tumblr.com/post/146797301984/after-i-read-this-fanfic-i-couldnt-resist-drawing).  It's a pic of Hatano and Jitsui cuddling together in their sleep, and they're so adorable I almost can't stand it!  lol. 

 

And also, if you like the mental image of the mini angels cuddling up together while they sleep, please check out my oneshot fic "[Sunshine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7209188)" which chronicles Jitsui's friendship with Hatano, right up until they get to the point where they start sharing sleeping space. 


	4. Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The D-Agency boys aren't used to being helpless. But when one of their own is missing, last seen in the company of a known murderer, they can't help but feel that way. And they can't help but take it out on the nearest available target.

Spoiler Warning for Episode 9: Double Joker Part 2

If you don’t want spoilers for this episode, please turn back now.  Thank you.

Also, I should note that the rating for this fic has changed from G to Teen, at the suggestion of one of my friends. She pointed out that it's a bit too violent for G rated, plus using the word "sex" automatically means it's not appropriate for children, so to keep from getting reported for violating the rating guidelines, I've changed the rating.

 

 

 

 

 

            Kaminaga glanced at Hatano.  Hatano dipped his head in the slightest of nods.  Then, without any further cues, both spies moved in unison.

            The Wind Agency wannabees never saw them coming.  Kaminaga’s never even knew what hit him.  The nerve agent Kaminaga injected into his neck put him out like a light.

            Hatano’s mark, unfortunately, did feel a thing.  And that thing was his jaw being dislocated from Hatano’s high kick.  He couldn’t cry out.  At first because the injury temporarily paralyzed his jaw.  And then because Hatano had grabbed his throat with both hands.  He then used his unoccupied feet to tangle them with the Wind Agency spy’s, just the way a certain friend of his had taught him to, and overbalanced the Wind Agency spy.  They went down in a tangle, with Hatano safely on top, and the Wind agent’s leg snapping beneath them both.

            Kaminaga fought off the urge to huff in exasperation and darted in.  He jammed a second syringe of sedatives into the neck of Hatano’s mark, knocking the man out before he could overcome his shock and pain and start screaming.  Then he glared at Hatano.

            “Why are you screwing around?”

            Hatano glared right back under his heavily lidded eyes.  _You know why,_ his look seemed to say.

            “Try to be a little more professional.  We have a job to do.”

            “Did I fail my job in any way?” whispered Hatano back at him.

            “Our job is to silence and restrain them.  In that order.  Not cripple them and leave them still able to call for help.”

            “Mine got what he deserved.”  Hatano’s gaze slid to Kaminaga’s original target.

            “Oh no you don’t,” said Kaminaga. “He’s already down.  You’re not mutilating him just for kicks.”

            “They deserve it,” Hatano growled.

            Kaminaga opened his mouth.  Then he closed it.  He couldn’t really deny that he felt the same way.  He’d never before been so tempted to break their moratorium on killing.

            He glanced at his watch.  It had been nearly three hours since they’d last had eyes on Jitsui. 

            Yuuki had seen him leave the motel with the Wind Agency spy Gamou.  There had been no word from or of him since.  And Yuuki had said that Jitsui had been moving like he’d been drugged.

            They knew he’d taken precautions, wearing a siphon attachment under his sleeve, to avoid drinking any poisons.  But what if it hadn’t been an ingested poison? 

            No, Kaminaga told himself.  I’m not even thinking about this.

            If Jitsui hadn’t been able to thwart the drug or poison, he would have signaled Yuuki and Yuuki would have switched the plan to one of their contingency plans.  Not even for a victory over Wind Agency would Yuuki have sacrificed one of his spies.  No, especially not for a victory over Wind Agency.  D-Agency were the jokers.  These guys were just jokes.  Running around, pretending to be spies, drawing down more attention than Kaminaga would have thought possible, leaving a trail of bodies and police investigations in their wake.

            He mentally cringed at the thought of that trail of bodies.  What if they’d just added one more to it?

            He could convince himself Jitsui had believed the situation was fine as he left the inn, but things could have turned around quickly after that. 

            Jitsui’s orders had been to feign unconsciousness until he found out what they intended to do with him, just to make sure D-Agency wasn’t missing anything.  But what if something unexpected had come up?  A second Wing Agency spy in the car?  Or what if Gamou had simply shot Jitsui without any warning as he sat slumped in the passenger seat?

            Any number of things could have gone wrong.  Something always went wrong.  Kaminaga didn’t want to believe that the worst had happened to Jitsui, but every minute that passed without any sign of him made that seem more likely.

            “Don’t look like that,” hissed Hatano.  “Don’t you look like that.  Jitsui’s fine.”

            “You’re right.  Of course he is.  He’s one of us,” said Kaminaga.

            Hatano nodded.  Then they gathered up their marks and dragged them into the shadows.

            Several minutes passed.  They spent them in silence, keeping an eye out for anything that they needed to deal with.  It was Hatano who finally broke the silence.

            “He’s been undercover as a servant for over a year.”

            Kaminaga glanced at him surprised but said nothing.  He wasn’t sure why Hatano felt the need to voice that.  Maybe he was looking forward to having Jitsui back at D-Agency?  He’d been gone so long, longer than anyone else had been on an assignment, and Kaminaga knew Hatano had missed him.  They’d all missed him to some degree, but Hatano was closest to Jitsui. 

            “There’s no way he’s been able to keep up with his physical training while working as a houseboy,” muttered Hatano.  “We shouldn’t have let him go off with Gamou alone.  Yuuki-san should have sent one of us to tail them.”

            “Tazaki sparred with Jitsui at his check in last month,” Kaminaga reminded him.  “His report said Jitsui’s physical condition was fine.”

            “There’s a big difference between fine and good.”

            “What, like the difference between us and these posers?” asked Kaminaga.  He nudged one of the unconscious Wind Agency spies with his toe.

            “What if we underestimated them?” hissed Hatano.  “What if we’ve been played?”

            “We haven’t.  Do you really think these guys laying here unconscious is part of their masterplan?”

            “Or what if Gamou was more dangerous than we thought?  Our intel said that he was the most capable out of the whole group?  ”

            The image of Jitsui, laying pale and dead in an ally came unbidden into Kaminaga’s mind.  It made him feel sick, but he fought it back.

            He was helped out by a new voice, familiar, but unexpected, and it came from right behind them and made both D-Agency spies jump.

            “I wouldn’t worry about that, Hatano.”

            “Jitsui!”

            The agonized mask of worry that had been plastered over Hatano’s face cracked, and it was like the sun shining through.  He surged forward to hug his friend.

            Jitsui gave a soft, breathless laugh as he returned the hug, then looked over Hatano’s shoulder to nod at Kaminaga.  “Good to see you, too, Hatano, Kaminaga.”

            Kaminaga grinned at him.  “You have no idea.”

            “What kept you?” asked Hatano.

            “I, personally, underestimated Gamou,” said Jitsui.

            Hatano’s hackles rose and, still holding onto Jitsui’s shoulders, he stepped back so he could hold his friend at an arm’s length, so he could scan him for injuries. Kaminaga found himself checking Jitsui over for injuries too, but he failed to see any.

            “I underestimated his stupidity,” Jitsui continued.  “He drove all the way down to the south cliffs to throw me into the ocean.  And he didn’t check to make sure he had enough gas for the return trip.  I had to walk most of the way here.”

            Hatano’s mouth opened in silent laughter.

            “Well,” said Kaminaga.  “That takes the cake.”

            “Hey,” whispered Hatano.  “Boss Wind Bag said for his other guys to wait here until 0300 and restrain anyone else who showed up.  In lieu of any further orders, I think he assumed they’d be joining him at that time.  But they’re knocked out and beat up and now they can’t make it.  Why don’t you go in and say hi instead?”

            Kaminaga snorted.  That would be rich.  Jitsui would let Lt. Colonel Fudo hear him coming, hear his footsteps.  And Fudo would think it was one of his own men.  My but it would be a nasty shock when he realized it was the boy he’d drugged earlier that evening, and sent one of his men to dispose of.

            “Go on,” said Kaminaga.  “Lt. Colonel Yuuki will want to see you.”

            Their leader would never admit it, but Kaminaga had seen the tension in his face, as more and more time passed with no word from Jitsui. 

            Jitsui gave them his angel smile.  “Alright.  I’ll see you at the rendezvous point.”

            “Don’t be late this time,” Hatano called after him softly.  “I can’t wait to tell you how I went to France and got amnesia.  And how Amari went to America and got a daughter!”

            Jitsui’s step faltered and he actually turned around to look at Hatano in shock.  “What?”

            Kaminaga snickered.  “Welcome home.”

 

Notes: Despite learning that he is now an uncle, Jitsui can't help but feel like nothing's really changed.   He is pleased to find that D-Agency is still just as crazy and spontaneous as it was before he went undercover.  Now, if you'll excuse him, he has to go help Yuuki drive someone to suicide.


	5. The Perfect Recipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odagiri’s thoughts on cooking, life, and the brothers that he never expected to have, but wouldn’t trade now for anything.

(Because Odagiri needs some love too)

 

            The best thing, about soup, in Odagiri’s opinion, was that there’s no set recipe for it. 

            He was not much of a cook.  Not like Fukumoto.  Lately he’d been learning more, because of all the members of D-Agency, Fukumoto was the one he was closest with.  Since Fukumoto spent time in the kitchen, therefore, so did Odagiri.

            They didn’t talk much.  Both men were quiet natured.  If a role required it, they could magically morph into an extrovert, with a boisterous laugh, or an oily leer, or whatever else the role called for.  But when they were allowed to be themselves, both men preferred to be quiet together.

            Even when cooking, they rarely had to exchange words.  Fukumoto gave him simple tasks, and Odagiri understood what was needed just by what Fukumoto left out.  Right now it was a knife, some radishes, and a grater, and a bowl.  This, Odagiri took to mean “Peel these radishes and grate them into this bowl.”  So he did so, as diligently as only someone being silent really could. 

            Out the corner of his eye he watched as Fukumoto set a big pot of water to boiling and added bonito flakes to it.  Then spices.  Salt.  Pepper.  Some kind of red powder.  A pinch of something green. 

            His taller friend used measuring spoons to get the quantities he wanted, but after each addition tasted his broth.  Sometimes he added a little bit more of whatever he’d been adding.  At other times, he seemed to decide that it was fine the way he had it.  If the smell in the kitchen was any indication, he was doing a good job.  A spicy aroma had filled the room.

            Fukumoto finished with the spices and looked to Odagiri.  Odagiri smiled wryly.  He wasn’t finished yet.  There were still three more radishes to peel then grate.  Fukumoto waved a hand, telling him not to mind.  Then he picked up the knife that Odagiri set down when he started grating his current radish.  And Fukumoto began peeling it.

            Fukumoto’s knife work was much better than Odagiri’s.  It was clear that he had done this many, many times.  The blade was a blur in his hands and the shavings that were falling onto the tabletop were thinner than the ones Odagiri had cut, and were in a perfectly connected spiral.

            When he finished peeling each one, he set it on the table for Odagiri to grate, delegating that task to him.  He somehow managed to peel all three of the remaining radishes before Odagiri finished grating the one he was working on.

            Among some of the other spies, this would have been cause for boisterous words, challenges, and playful insults.  But between Fukumoto and Odagiri there was only their usual silence.  Odagiri maybe felt a little bit annoyed at how much better Fukumoto was at this than he was.  But Fukumoto had clearly put in the time to be this much better.  And he wasn’t holding it over Odagiri.

            A pat on the shoulder and a slight smile told Odagiri that Fukumoto had been onto his line of thinking.  Odagiri translated his actions to mean, “You’re fine the way you’re doing it.”

            Odagiri gave him a slight nod in return.

            While Odagiri continued grating the radishes, Fukumoto opened the refrigerator and removed the egg basket.  He stared at it for a few moments, like he was calculating.  Or counting.  Counting the eggs, Odagiri realized.  Perhaps taking into account how many he planned to use for breakfast tomorrow.

            Breakfast, Odagiri had learned early on in his friendship with Fukumoto, and their life at D-Agency, required much more precision than soup.  Eggs took careful calculation.  How many each spy ate, how many could be used in a particular pan, and so fourth.  Try to put too many in one pan and you’d either undercook or overcook them.  Make too many and, though they would be eaten later, they wouldn’t taste as good.  Unless they were hard boiled.

            Odagiri knew how to hard boil eggs.  Those were his specialty.  Fukumoto made omelets for his fellow spies, or fried eggs, or French toast. 

            When Fukumoto finished his current calculations, he removed five eggs from the basket and returned the basket to the refrigerator.  Last time they made radish soup, Odagiri remembered him using three eggs.  One time they didn’t use any eggs at all.  The soup had been different then.  Still good, but less thick and more brothy.  More eggs, Odagiri assumed, meant that the soup would be thicker with a more full bodied flavor.

            Radishes peeled, Odagiri set down the grater.  Fukumoto looked up at the noise it made then motioned to the pot.  Odagiri took his meaning, and carried the bowl of grated radishes over to the boiling broth.  He added them carefully so that they wouldn’t splash, then went to wash the bowl he’d just used.

            By the time he was finished with that, Fukumoto had set something else out for him.  Green onions and a cutting board.  And a different, bigger knife.

            “When you finish those,” said Fukumoto, speaking for the first time since they’d started, “Put them in a bowl and set them to the side.  Those get added near the end.”

            “Didn’t they get added first last time?” Odagiri asked, also breaking his silence.

            “Last time I used regular onions.  The rules for green onions are a little different.”

            Odagiri inclined his head then set to work. 

            Briefly, he wondered if the change from regular onions to green onions might have been for his benefit.  Fukumoto had given him the task of chopping the regular onions last time, but had quickly taken over the task when Odagiri realized he wasn’t up to it.  His eyes had started watering, and soon he was full out crying.  Hatano and Amari had bounded into the kitchen, in the middle of some chase or game, and frozen at the sight of his red eyes and tears. 

            That had been embarrassing.  But looking back, it was one of those moments Odagiri thought on fondly.  Hatano and Amari had exchanged glances, then Hatano had made a beeline to their liquor cabinet and poured Odagiri three fingers of scotch, neat, just the way Odagiri always served it for himself.  Amari had put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, then stepped back.

            “I won’t ask,” he’d said.  “But I’m here if you want to talk.  Or if you need anything.”

            Then Fukumoto had come back, taken in the situation at a glance, and burst into his rare laughter.

            Fukumoto had mentioned the next day that you built up resistance to onion fumes and eventually would stop crying.  Odagiri hadn’t handled any onions since, so he didn’t think that’s why he wasn’t crying this time.  He hadn’t cried any of the previous times he’d chopped green onions either.  It must just be that green onions were less likely to make you cry.  Like Fukumoto said, the rules were different. 

            Different rules.  Different ingredients.  Overall, a different soup.  No rigid demands for how it had to turn out.  As long as you took care, and had someone who knew what they were doing at the lead, it would still turn out fine.  That’s what Odagiri liked best about it. 

            You didn’t always need a formula.  Things didn’t always need to be exactly the same.

            The world needed things that were different.  People who were different.  Odagiri had understood that back when he was in the military.  But the military itself had never understood that. 

            It made him feel a little sick sometimes, because out of all of them in D-Agency, he alone knew just what their military was like.  The others had general ideas, garnered from how closed minded they knew soldiers to be.  But they didn’t really comprehend just what the military would love to do to them if it could just get its greasy hands on them. 

            Their individuality and ingenuity would be stomped out.  Miyoshi’s sly smile slapped off his face.  Hatano’s cheekiness drummed out of him with strict punishments.  Their ability to act independently and think for themselves would put targets on all their heads.  Odagiri doubted that it would take long at all for his comrades in D-Agency to get themselves sent to the worst, most dangerous front the army could manage to send them to.  They didn’t realize just what Yuuki might have saved them from, when he made them into D-Agency, and took them out of the Japanese army’s drafting pool.

            A spoonful of soup was suddenly hovering in front of Odagiri’s face.  With a start, he realized that he’d lost himself in his thoughts.  Fukumoto might not have known exactly what he was thinking, but he could tell his friend had been lost in dark thoughts.  And he had contrived a distraction to break him out of them.

            “Taste,” Fukumoto ordered.

            Odagiri opened his mouth and let Fukumoto spoon feed him, just that one bite.  Warmth filled his mouth, helping to pull him back to the moment, where he was in D-Agency’s warm, bright kitchen with the man who was quite possibly the best friend he’d ever had, helping him cook dinner for the rest of their brothers.

            “It’s good,” Odagiri said.  And it was.  The soup was sweet from the radishes, salty from the fish stock, with a certain tanginess from the spices. 

            Fukumoto smiled and his smile was contagious.

            Odagiri returned to his task of chopping the green onions.  Fukumoto started cracking the eggs then scrambling them in a separate bowl.  Then adding them little by little to the boiling stock.  Odagiri finished chopping the onions before Fukumoto had finished that.

            “Could you get two packages of noodles from the cabinet?” Fukumoto asked.

            Odagiri obeyed and brought the packages to him.  “Why noodles?”

            He’d never known Fukumoto to add noodles to his radish soup before.

            “Miyoshi looks a bit too thin.”

            Oh.  Yes.  Odagiri could understand now.  Miyoshi had returned that morning, from a month long mission, looking worn and haggard, worse than they’d ever seen the usually immaculate, perfectly composed spy.  Whatever Yuuki had sent him to do, he wasn’t allowed to talk about it.  But it was clear that it had taken a harder toll on him than even Yuuki had expected.  There wasn’t much they could do to help him.  Classified missions were classified missions.  But Fukumoto had centered in on the one thing that he realized he could do to help Miyoshi, and that was to feed him, and get him looking healthy again.

            “I tried to get meat, but there were shortages again,” Fukumoto said. 

            “Miyoshi likes radish soup and noodle soup,” said Odagiri.  He didn’t bother saying that this logically meant that Miyoshi would like radish noodle soup.  “This will help.”

            They went back to work, adding the remaining ingredients as the soup continued cooking.  It wasn’t long before the delicious smell of their creation began drawing the other spies down to the kitchen, like a siren’s song. 

            Jitsui was polite enough to stay out of the way reading his book.  Hatano, had to get underfoot, begging for an early taste, and being a nuisance.  Amari asked if there was anything he could do to help.  Tazaki set the table without being asked.  Kaminaga hung around, helping to coral Hatano when he got to be too much, until Fukumoto announced the soup was ready.  Then Kaminaga left to wake Miyoshi.

            When he joined them, Miyoshi looked, as Fukumoto had observed, a little too thin.  His cheekbones stood out a little too much, making him look a bit gaunt, a bit sick.  But his eyes were alert and bright as he took in the familiar sights of the kitchen.

            Odagiri knew that look.  He’d worn it himself on several occasions.

            Coming back to D-Agency after a mission was like coming home.  And seeing the other spies again was like being back amongst family.  True, there wasn’t a drop of common blood shared amongst the eight of them, but common blood wasn’t a necessary ingredient in the recipe for a family.  They just substituted that out and traded in a bunch of other ingredients to make their recipe better.

 

Notes: I’m a firm believer that friends are the family you’ve chosen for yourself.  And I get the feeling that most of our D-Agency boys never really fit in with the families they were born into.  The way I understand it, at that time, for a Japanese man to completely disassociate himself from his family or his family’s name, was a really big, bad deal.  Not the kind of thing someone who’s had an apple pie life, with a loving, supportive family could ever think of doing.  So I like the idea of them having gelled together, and become a family of their own, making up for the one they left behind, or never had to begin with. 

 

Sorry to the cooks out there if I’ve messed up anything or misrepresented your art, btw.  Like Odagiri, I’m not much of a cook myself.  My roommate can cook and helped me out a little with this chapter, but she’s gone for the weekend, and I’m too impatient to wait until she’s back to get her to make sure the final draft doesn’t having any cooking faux paus in.  The recipe’s based off one she makes, but I don’t actually know the process.   Any mistakes are my own. 

 


	6. Tight Laced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That time Sakuma found half of D-Agency trying on women's underwear

            “Stop!  Stop!  Stop!”

            Sakuma stopped walking with an immediate feeling of alarm.  He recognized that voice.  Even though he’d never heard Hatano sound like that before.  Like he was in pain, and panicking.  Immediately, he changed directions.  He wondered if he was going to regret this.  But he also couldn’t just walk away if there was the possibility that Hatano was somehow in real pain or danger right here in D-Agency.  Or if the potential for blackmail was there.  The gods knew that the spies all had way too much to hold over him.  It might be nice to find something on one of them for a change.

            “I can’t breathe,” Hatano wheezed as Sakuma opened the cafeteria door.  “Just stop.”

            “We can’t stop here, Hatano,” Fukumoto said.  “It’s not tight enough to achieve the desired effect.”

            “Rot in hell,” Hatano said, with a grimace on his face.

            “What are you doing?” asked Sakuma.  Because even though he could see, he couldn’t comprehend.

            Fukumoto was standing behind Hatano, and it seemed like his grip on the younger spy was the only thing that was keeping him upright.  And Hatano was in a semi state of undress.  He wore his usual suit trousers, and his suspenders were still clipped to them, but draped down.  His shirt was gone, however, folded neatly on one of the tables, and his suit jacket was draped on the nearby chair.  But it couldn’t actually be said that Hatano was topless because he was wearing a woman’s corset.

            And he wasn’t the only one.

            Jitsui was dressed the exact same way, except without suspenders.  His corset already seemed to have been completely laced up.  He sat at one of the tables, back ramrod straight, face white, except for two rosy spots on his cheeks, and appeared to be barely breathing. 

            And Miyoshi . . .

            Sakuma gulped at the sight of Miyoshi who actually was topless, and seemingly waiting for Kaminaga to help him get his own corset on.

            Miyoshi’s face lit at the sight of him.  “Hello, Sakuma-san.  We were simply –”

            “Never mind.  I don’t want to know.” Sakuma turned to leave.

            A thud that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor stopped him.

            “Jitsui!”

            Sakuma turned and . . . yes . . . Jitsui had passed out and fallen out of his chair.

            Miyoshi and Kaminaga were instantly by his side, lifting him off the floor, into a seated position.

            “Jitsui?” asked Hatano, making each syllable sound like it took great effort.  And considering how tightly Fukumoto was pulling on those laces, Sakuma was sure that it did.  “Let go, Fukumoto.  Now.”

            Fukumoto frowned, but tied Hatano’s laces where they were, and released the smaller spy.  Hatano walked stiffly over to the other spies.  Sakuma joined them in hovering. 

            “Is he alright?” the lieutenant asked.

            “Probably,” said Kaminaga.”

            “People who are unconscious usually aren’t alright,” Fukumoto observed.

            “It’s because you bastards did his laces too tight,” huffed Hatano. 

            “That does seem to be the case,” Miyoshi said as he took Jitsui’s full weight into his own arms, holding him so that his laced up back was to Kaminaga. 

            “So hurry up and get it off him.”  Hatano’s face was turning red.  Sakuma couldn’t tell if that was from anger or exertion.

            “What do you think I’m doing?” asked Kaminaga.  “Stopping for tea?”

            “I don’t see those knots being untied.”

            Kaminaga’s fingers were fumbling over the knots, even though he had presumably been the one to tie them. 

            “Kaminaga,” Miyoshi commented.  “Speed probably would be prudent right now.”

            “I’m trying.  These laces are weird.  They’re not slipping the way they should.”

            “I suggest you hurry.  Because I can’t feel him breathing anymore,” said Miyoshi, his voice taking on a concerned edge.

            Sakuma rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket.  He came out with a folding knife, opened it, and made short work of the laces.  Miyoshi glanced at him, looking mildly surprised, but didn’t comment.  He jerked the two halves of the corset apart so that they weren’t restricting Jitsui’s breathing anymore.

            Jitsui gasped loudly and started breathing heavily through his mouth.  His eyes were still closed so he was probably still unconscious.  He didn’t offer resistance when Miyoshi lifted him off the floor.

            It was then that Sakuma realized Hatano hadn’t said anything in entire seconds.  In his time at D-Agency, one thing he had learned, was that if there was criticizing to do, or a ruckus to be raised about anything, Hatano would be the one doing it.  So he was not altogether surprised to see Hatano clinging to a chair, bent over, looking like he was about to follow Jitsui’s suit.

            Sakuma heaved a sigh and walked over behind the youngest spy, and started untying his laces.  Unlike Jitsui’s, Hatano’s didn’t seem to be tied up too complicated.  A tug on one of the loose ends of the bow had them coming loose enough for him to yank the two halves apart, as Miyoshi had.

            It was Hatano’s turn to gasp in relief.  “Thanks, Fuku –”  He turned and saw Sakuma standing there.  For a second he faltered.  Then sighed.  “Thank you, lieutenant.”

            “You’re welcome, I suppose.” 

            “Is Jitsui not dead?” Hatano asked.

            “He’s not dead,” Miyoshi confirmed. 

            Hatano nodded, then pulled his corset off and threw it to the ground.  The look he gave the other spies dared them to comment as he retrieved his shirt and began putting it back on as he walked over to the table where Miyoshi had laid Jitsui down on.

            “Alright.  You’ve got me.  I’ll ask,” said Sakuma.  “Why?”

            Every conscious spy looked at Sakuma as if he’d asked something weird.

            “Why what?” asked Kaminaga.

            “Why were you putting them in corsets?” Sakuma elaborated.

            “Oh?  It’s not obvious?  We wanted to take our disguises up a notch,” said Miyoshi. 

            Sakuma grimaced at them.  He felt his headache building.

            “Only three of us can believably pass as female.  But Fukumoto was concerned, after returning from Shanghai, about how easily even the disguises of men who pretend to be women for a living could be seen through,” Miyoshi continued.  “The shape of our figures betray us.  So we decided to see if we could find something to up our game.”

            “Up your game,” Sakuma echoed his voice full of disbelief.

            “Yeah.  And we failed.  This time,” said Hatano as he finished buttoning up his shirt.  “There’s no way we can work in those things.  There’s no way we can even breath in those things, let alone act, or fight, or make any kind of fast escape.”

            Miyoshi frowned at him.  “We shouldn’t rule these out as a failure quite yet.”

            Hatano gave him the stink eye.  “Kaminaga almost killed Jitsui.”

            “Almost is a really strong word,” argued Kaminaga.

            “Women wore these for centuries without dying,” said Miyoshi, lifting up his corset and examining it with a critical eye.  

            “Women wore them and died for centuries,” shot back Hatano. 

            “If these caused women to drop dead left and right they never would have become so popular in Western society.  There has to be some sort of trick to it –“

            “Alright.  When you figure out how to live without breathing, let me know," huffed Hatano.  "Until then, count us out.”

            Jitsui had started waking up.  He lifted his head groggily when Hatano pulled the slit laced corset off him the rest of the way.

            “You alright, Jitsui?” asked Sakuma, as the young spy slowly sat up on the table, Hatano quickly putting a hand on his back to steady him.

            “Yes.  Thank you, lieutenant,” said Jitsui, straight faced.  “You saved my life.  My hero.”

            Hatano and Miyoshi laughed, and even Fukumoto chuckled, as Kaminaga squawked that Jitsui’s life had never been in danger, and that if he hadn’t gotten the knots undone in another second or two, one of them would have thought to grab a kitchen knife, of which there were plenty, beings as they were in a kitchen.  All while Sakuma flushed.

            When Jitsui stood up, he seemed steady enough on his feet.  He accepted a glass of water from Fukumoto, who seemed to feel bad about whatever part he’d played in nearly suffocating Jitsui.  Then the young spy retrieved his shirt and excused himself.  “There’s a book I want to finish before I go to bed.”

            Hatano followed him out, giving the others parting nod, and snatching up both his and Jitsui’s forgotten jackets. 

            Miyoshi picked up the one corset that had not been used, examined it for a moment, and then slid it on, over his head.  “Can I ask you to tighten up the laces for me, Sakuma-san?”

            Sakuma blanched.  “What?”

            “I thought I’d take a go at this, before ruling the experiment a complete failure.  Perhaps the experience will allow me to figure out what we’ve been doing wrong so far,” said Miyoshi.

            Sakuma waved wildly at Kaminaga and Fukumoto.  “Wh-why not ask one of them?”

            “Well, I obviously don’t want Kaminaga to do this for me.  He almost killed Jitsui,” said Miyoshi, eyes wide and innocent.

            “I did not!”

            “And Hatano was clearly about to follow the same way.  So Fukumoto’s out too, I’m afraid.”

            Fukumoto had just picked up his own jacket off a chair and slung it over his shoulder on his way out of the cafeteria.  But before he left, he offered Miyoshi a parting shot.  “You’re not fooling anyone.”

            Miyoshi ignored him.  “I’m hoping you’ll have a better touch at this than them.”

            Sakuma opened his mouth to refuse.  But then Miyoshi stared up at him with big luminous eyes.

            “Please, lieutenant?”

            “I – er, oh, alright,” grumbled Sakuma.  He moved behind Miyoshi and started inspecting the laces, figuring out how tightening them worked.

            “You could be a little more gracious,” said Miyoshi.  “I’m only asking you for help putting on an article of clothing.  It’s not like I’m asking you to rip all my clothes off me.”

            “Leaving,” announced Kaminaga, as Sakuma started spluttering again.  “Right now.”

            The door had shut behind him before Sakuma managed to stop spluttering.

            Miyoshi turned to smile slyly up at him.  “Though, if you want to rip off all my clothes, you could do that too.”

 

Notes:  Sakuma politely declined.  He felt that tearing off Hatano’s and Jitsui’s underwear was enough for one night, and didn’t want people to think he played too fast and loose.  Or something like that.

            And the D-Agency boys eventually figured out that you have to get used to wearing a corset before you can wear it tight enough for an hourglass figure.  And then they crashed Sakuma’s army buddies’ night out.  But that’s a story for another time.

 

There is now fanart for this chapter!  Blobmaaan drew for us a lovely picture of Hatano wearing a corset.  <http://blobmaaan.tumblr.com/image/146836891389>


	7. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a job well done, it’s perfectly acceptable to go out for ice cream, right? Right?
> 
> Or: After schooling Wind Agency, Hatano tries to convince Lt. Colonel Yuuki to take them out for a delicious frozen treat.

            Kaminaga and Hatano were waiting at the rendezvous point when Jitsui drove up.  Not that anyone casually passing by would have been able to tell.  A moment passed where it seemed like the only thing that really happened, was that a car pulled over by the side of the road, next to a park.  The casual observer (of which there actually weren’t any) wouldn’t have seen the two pairs of eyes, boring into the glass windows, making out the features of their colleagues inside.  And they wouldn’t have seen one of the hiding spies signal the other that all was well, and the other give the confirmation signal.  They wouldn’t have even seen them slip out of their separate hiding places, one of which was inside the park, the other just across the street.  If there had been anyone watching, it would have suddenly seemed as though the shadows just conjured up two young men, who just appeared out of nowhere beside the car.

            Hatano climbed into the passenger’s seat, so he could sit up front with Jitsui.  Kaminaga entered in the back, taking the window seat opposite Yuuki.

            “Report,” Yuuki ordered, as soon as both doors were closed, and Jitsui was pulling away from the curb again.

            “We have confirmation of Lt. Colonel Fudo’s death,” said Kaminaga.

            “Single gunshot wound to the head,” added Hatano.  “Self inflicted.”

            Yuuki made a noise that was a little too elegant to actually be a snort.  All three spies could easily guess what their boss was thinking, even though he never said it.

            _Fool._

            Lt. Colonel Fudo really had been a fool to the end. 

            “No further problems were encountered,” Kaminaga finished. 

            “Unless you count the Wind Agency idiots’ vows of revenge against us, upon awaking to find their boss dead as problems,” said Hatano.  “Which I don’t.”

            Yuuki looked at them sharply.  “Did they see you after reawakening and finding Fudo dead?”

            “No sir,” reported Kaminaga.

            “Of course not.  What do you think we are?” Hatano scoffed.  Then belatedly added, “Sir.”

            Yuuki was silent for several seconds.  All three spies waited to see if he would take offense to Hatano’s impudence.  Hatano usually was pretty good about knowing where to draw the line.  But every now and then Lt. Colonel Yuuki was in a mood, and what would normally be acceptable turned out to be a step too far.  And tonight had been especially stressful, with Jitsui disappearing off their radar for several hours, and them not knowing if he was dead or alive.  Even though everything had turned out perfectly, and the mission had been an overwhelming success, that stress and uncertainty kind of kept them from feeling like everything had turned out perfectly.

            But just when the silence was getting a little too long, and even Hatano was almost certain he’d gone a little too far, Yuuki surprised them.

            “Well done.  All of you.”

            Smiles lit their faces.  Open praise from their boss was rare.  They knew that they were extremely good at their jobs.  They also knew that they rarely failed to make him proud.  They’d gotten good at picking up on the little mannerisms that let them know he was pleased with them.  But it was still nice to hear it, once in awhile, in as many words, from him.

            “Thank you,” Kaminaga responded for them all.  He neglected to add in a “Sir” or any sort of honorific, since Yuuki didn’t demand that of them in informal situations.  Which this now was, if Yuuki was verbaly praising them.

            Jitsui gave his angel smile and glanced back in the rear view mirror for a quick look at his boss.

            And Hatano twisted in his seat, so he could look Yuuki in the eye, as he grinned and spoke.

            “Hey, Yuuki-san?”

            Yuuki looked at him evenly.  “Yes, Hatano?”

            “Take us out for ice cream?”

            Kaminaga coughed to hide a choking laugh.  Jitsui very admirably hid his own reaction.  Only the slightest shift of the car, as his hand tipped the wheel just a few millimeters off course betrayed his humor and surprise at Hatano’s brash request.

            Yuuki continued to stare at his youngest spy.  “Ice cream, Hatano?”

            “What?  We did good, didn’t we?  You just said we did good.  Going out for ice cream is a perfectly acceptable request –”

            “You are aware that it is 3:30 in the morning,” said Yuuki dryly.

            “Mmhmm.  And?”

            Yuuki’s expression was stony.  “Turn around and sit properly in your seat.”

            Hatano made a soft, disappointed “Aww,” sound, but obeyed, turning back around, and settling back into his seat.  Kaminaga bit his lip and turned his face away so Yuuki couldn’t as easily see how close he was to snickering.  Jitsui’s eyes were bright with amusement.

            Silence settled over the passengers of the car.  But not uncomfortable silence.  All three spies knew that Yuuki was secretly amused by Hatano’s impudence.  He let Hatano get away with far too much for that to not be the case.  And Yuuki was obviously in a very good mood from the night’s success. 

            As proven by his words, several minutes later, after his spies all thought that the matter had been dropped.

            “We will go out for ice cream tomorrow at 1300 hours.”

            This time there was a noticeable lurch of the car, as Jitsui accidentally jerked the wheel to the side in surprise. 

 

* * *

 

            Notes: I got the idea for this chapter from what was kind of a throwaway line in my other fic “The Voyage Home.”  But the image of Yuuki taking his boys out for ice cream could not just so easily be thrown away.  So here you go.

 

            Further Notes: Ice cream is awesome.


	8. Magic Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun with foot massaging

            It was 1:17 AM when Kaminaga stumbled back into D-Agency.  Literally stumbled.  He managed to make it through the door without showing that he was limping, but the instant it was closed behind him, he let his guard down.  There was no further reason not to draw attention to himself.  No one would be watching him in here who he needed to keep from getting attention from.  And the others likely weren’t even around, given that this was their usual time for being out on the town.

            Kaminaga made his way to the cafeteria, leaning one shoulder heavily against the wall, to help take some weight off his feet, and grabbing onto counters and chairs as he passed them.  Then, after pouring himself a generous glass of scotch, he hobbled to the lounge that served as their living/common room.  Where he collapsed onto a comfy chair with a groan.

            “Kaminaga?  Are you alright?”

            The voice made him jump.  He sat up straighter, eyes a bit wild, and saw Tazaki had already been there, sitting silently in the chair right beside his.  Alone in the dark.  Which was actually pretty normal for Tazaki, come to think of it.

            “I’m alright,” he said, doing his best to put all pain out of his voice.  “I’ve just been on my feet way too long today.”

            “You left at ten,” remembered Tazaki.

            “And I haven’t sat down more than two minutes since,” said Kaminaga. 

            “Tailing someone?”

            “Yeah.  But Yuuki-san said he’d be away tonight.  So I report tomorrow, thankfully.  So now I can sit.  And whine.  And pull myself together before he comes back.”

            “He left at eleven,” stated Tazaki.  That wasn’t exactly important, but Kaminaga just nodded like it was. 

            “And the others?  When did they leave?”

            “Eleven-thirty.”

            Kaminaga closed his eyes and leaned back.  “Sorry if I interrupted your sitting alone in the dark.  But I can’t get up right now.  Feet too sore.  I need a few minutes to recover before I brave the stairs.”

            “It’s fine,” said Tazaki. 

            Kaminaga closed his eyes and sighed.  Then he opened his eyes as he felt a tugging on his shoes.  “What?”

            “You should take them off, if your feet hurt,” said Tazaki. 

            “Yeah.  But I can get it, you don’t have to,” said Kaminaga.  But Tazaki had already removed them.  “Thanks I guess.  I – _oh!”_

            His eyes widened, the pupils dilating, because Tazaki had just seized his right foot with both hands, holding it steady, and pressed both thumbs into the bottom of his foot, applying pressure just so.  At that touch alone, the pain that had been burning through Kaminaga’s whole foot shooting up his shin and all the way to his knees, just melted away.  A warm, tingling rush took its place, that left Kaminaga on the verge of gasping.

            “Wh-what are you d-doing?”

            “Foot massage,” said Tazaki.  “You seem like you need one.”

            His hands were still moving over Kaminaga’s foot.  The pads of his thumbs were moving over Kaminaga’s sole, digging into various pressure points, pressing down into his arch, and other sensitive areas, ghosting over his skin between them.

            Kaminaga collapsed back into his chair and gulped.

            “They say I have magic hands,” said Tazaki, switching to Kaminaga’s other foot and administering the same godly procedure.  “Well, they don’t really.  But I say I have magic hands, so –”

            “Tazaki,” said Kaminaga, somehow managing to speak through his bliss.  “You have magic hands.”

            He swore that he could hear Tazaki smile.  “Thank you.”

            And then he did something to Kaminaga’s heel with his thumbs and index fingers that sent a wave of pleasure coursing through Kaminaga’s whole leg and made him groan.

            “We’re lucky Sakuma-san deigned to go out with the others tonight,” said Tazaki, somewhat absently.  “Otherwise he’d probably come down here, red faced, to see what indecent things we were getting up to.”

            “No, it’s more likely he’d stay up in the dormitory, hiding his head under his pillow, trying to pretend he didn’t hear anything,” said Kaminaga.

            “Hm, you’re probably right.”

            “Do that to my other foot, will you?  Please?” Kaminaga would beg if he had to.  But Tazaki didn’t seem inclined to make him.  He immediately obliged and another groan escaped Kaminaga’s throat. 

            “Feels good, I take it?” asked Tazaki.  Unnecessarily, in Kaminaga’s opinion, because the sounds he was making made it clear that yes, this was on par with sex, it felt so good.  But then, Kaminaga realized that Tazaki was fishing for compliments.  He wanted to be praised.

            So he opened his eyes, sat up, and reached down to grab Tazaki’s tie, dragging Tazaki up to him.

            Tazaki blinked.

            “Marry me, have my children, and massage my feet for me after I come home from work every day.”

            Tazaki gave him a sly smile that even Miyoshi would have had a hard time topping.  Then he dug both thumbs into the sensitive spot right in the center of Kaminaga’s foot.  Tazaki’s tie slipped through Kaminaga’s suddenly numb fingers, and his back involuntarily arched.

            “Sorry, Kaminaga,” said Tazaki.  “But I have some very stringent requirements that I’m looking for in my significant other.  And you don’t quite meet them.”

            Kaminaga’s laugh was a little bit hysterical.  Who knew that a foot massage could be so good that the pleasure was actually brain numbing? 

            “Oh yeah,” he huffed, a little breathless.  “What’s the deal breaker then?”

            Tazaki repeated the same move on Kaminaga’s other foot, making him practically convulse.  Then waited until Kaminaga had managed to pull himself back together a bit, before leaning up to give his answer in a whisper that was entirely too sexy for the words he spoke.”

            “Must love pigeons.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Notes: Tazaki probably wins for weirdest dating site profile.


	9. Mouth to Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is both drama and CPR

            Amari was as gentle as he could be as he lowered Jitsui to the ground.  The petit boy lay there pale and unmoving.  His clothes clung to him, heavy with water, that also ran in rivulets down the sides of his face.

            “Jitsui?  Jitsui, wake up.”  Amari tried to rouse a response from the pale boy, but got none.  He patted one cheek several times quickly, just light enough to be on this side of actually slapping him.  But that didn’t get a response either.  So he put two fingers on the boy’s throat, checking his pulse.  “No, Jitsui.  Don’t do this to me, kid . . .”

            Then he changed his position, so that he was kneeling beside him instead of just clumsily crouching.  He readjusted Jitsui’s head, tilting it back enough to open his airways, but not so far back that they were forced closed again.  He pressed his lips down over Jitsui’s, covering the boy’s entire mouth with his own, and making sure that they were in place well enough to form an airtight seal.  Then he breathed into the unmoving boy.

            He gave Jitsui several breaths of air, then moved slightly, so he was closer to his chest than head.  He locked his hands together the way he remembered his instructor showing him, then began giving the boy chest compressions, over his heart, pushing down hard enough to get the blood pumping through his small body.

            “Live!  Live!” Amari shouted, then switched back to give him a few more breaths.  “Breathe, damn you!”

            Jitsui’s eyes opened as Amari went back to giving him chest compressions.  He blinked away the water that was dripping from his soaked hair into his eyes, then gave the older man a look like he was trying hard to be polite and not annoyed.  “Please ease up a little bit.  You’re in danger of cracking my ribs, Amari.”

            “Oh!  Sorry!”  Amari resumed chest compressions, but made an effort to reduce the strength he used.

            Jitsui closed his eyes again and went back to playing the unresponsive near-drowning victim.

            “Don’t you die on me soldier!  Breathe, dammit!”

            “Enough,” said Yuuki.

            Amari immediately ceased and desisted, looking embarrassed at being caught over acting by his boss.  Jitsui opened his eyes and sat up, back straight, pretty much at attention.

            “The amount of force you were using in your first attempts was acceptable,” Yuuki said, after giving Amari a very stern look.  “If you ever use these techniques to resuscitate someone, you may well end up cracking their ribs.  If it’s to save their life, do not be hesitant to do so.  Though when practicing on a fellow trainee, reducing your strength to prevent needless injuries is understandable.”

            “Yes sir,” Amari said.

            “Reducing your dramatics would not go amiss either,” said Yuuki dryly.

            Amari was about to give the affirmative on that as well, but was stopped by a crazed howl.

            “Hatano!  Don’t die, Hatano!  You have so much left to live for!” Kaminaga wailed, as he hauled Hatano out of the river, and onto the bank, where they were completing their exercise. 

            Yuuki’s expression stayed miraculously in place at first.  Even when Kaminaga’s wails grew in melodrama and volume, and Hatano broke out of his role as an unresponsive near-drowning victim and started yelling at Kaminaga for dropping him on a rock.  But when Amari’s shoulders started shaking with repressed laughter, and Jitsui’s eyes were crinkling at the corners, Yuuki couldn’t seem to help giving them the stink eye for their amusement, before turning to go put a stop to his other wayward student’s needless dramatics.

 

            Notes: Yuuki has no one but himself to blame for this.  He’s the one encouraging their acting careers.


	10. Shark Tank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hatano tries to explain to Yuuki and the others exactly why he thought hiding in a shark tank was a good idea.
> 
> Written in honor of Shark Week 2016. Who doesn’t love Shark Week!

            It was one of those rare evenings when most of the D-Agency spies had returned to the nest.  Odagiri was still in Manchuria, allegedly a military man once more, but they all knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.  He hadn’t made it a month before his spy training shone through, and Yuuki started getting coded transmissions of choice and classified intel from that scheming country.  And Fukumoto was on his way there now, to exploit a certain Soviet secretary’s debts, courtesy of that intel.  But all the other spies were back home, and had decided to enjoy a night out on the town.  Except Hatano.  Yuuki had put him on a short term assignment, at the last minute, or he would have been with them.  He was due back at the agency later that night.

            Still, with five spies together for dinner, it was a good night.  There was an energy amongst their group that could only be found when they were together.  And the more of them there were, the stronger that energy was.  So on the way home from dinner, they were all in a great moods.  Up about to the point where a coin sailed out of the darkness to cling against the back of Kaminaga’s head.

            “Hey!”  Kaminaga immediately mock glared at his friends, expecting this to be one of their pranks.  But the looks of confusion they turned on him were genuine.  At least he thought they were genuine.  It was never easy to tell with them.

            “What’s wrong, Kaminaga?” asked Jitsui.

            “Did you drop some change?” asked Miyoshi, looking down at the rolling coin at their feet.

            “Someone threw –” Kaminaga caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly raised his hand.  He caught the second coin in his fist.

            The casual lightness immediately evaporated from the group of spies.  Unknown elements had to be assumed as enemy action until verified otherwise.  Their expressions didn’t change, or their postures.  No one looking at them would have realized they’d just gone on full alert.  But each man was on full alert and covertly scouring the area for threats.

            Another coin clinked on the ground.  This time it fell far short of Kaminaga.  Then a final coin landed at the entrance of a nearby alley.

            “Could be a trap,” said Amari, taking out a cigarette.

            “You think?” asked Miyoshi with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

            “The question is, do we spring it or not?” asked Tazaki.

            “Movement on the rooftop,” said Jitsui, offering Amari a light.  “Near the White Walls club sign.”

            “We can’t really not check this out,” said Kaminaga.  “Yuuki would have our heads if he found out.  Especially if it turns out this isn’t nothing.”

            “I’ll go,” said Amari.  And no one was surprised.  The big brother of D-Agency took his self-appointed role seriously. 

            “I’ll circle around to the other side of the alley,” said Jitsui.

            “Not alone, you won’t,” said Kaminaga.  “That could be exactly what they want.”

            “Tazaki, you go with Jitsui,” said Miyoshi.  “Kaminaga, with Amari, since you were the one being signaled.  I’ll find a way up onto the roof and surprise whoever’s up there.”

            They split up as though they’d planned on parting there, waving goodbyes, and tipping their hats, even calling out a promise or two to meet up again soon.  Then they went into action.

            Amari and Kaminaga strode into their alley, all their senses primed for danger.  They were ready for an ambush or a fight.  An assassination attempt wouldn’t have been out of the question.  But instead they got a surprise.

            “Hey.  It’s me,” hissed a familiar voice from the roof just above them.

            The two oldest spies did a double take at the sound of their youngest spy’s voice.

            “Hatano?”

            “Yeah,” said Hatano softly.  He moved so that he was at the edge of the two story rooftop, and they could see him perched there, silhouetted against the light that was reflecting from the club sign into the sky. 

            “What’s wrong?” asked Amari.  Because something was definitely wrong.  Hatano had gone out on assignment.  If he’d finished early and wanted to join up with them, he would have done so casually.  Not played games and lured them into an alley.  The spies might prank each other, and play games with each other, but not when one of them was on a mission.  Not until after getting or giving confirmation that the mission was over.  There were some things they couldn’t find any amusement in joking around about.  So when one of them was on assignment, all frivolities with that spy were suspended until after the assignment ended, and everyone knew it.

            “I’m alright,” said Hatano.  “I just ran into a few complications on my mission.  I’m clear now.  No pursuit, no tail.  But I’ve got a slight problem.”

            “Hatano?”  Jitsui asked.  He and Tazaki had arrived from the other side of the alley.

            “Hi,” said Hatano, waving down at his age-mate.

            “What’s wrong?” asked Jitsui, just as Amari had.  He’d come to the exact same conclusion in just as little time.

            “Nothing’s wrong,” said Hatano.  “Just a small problem that –”

            He stopped talking, and they saw his silhouette’s posture change, going into combat mode.  He stood and twisted, ready for a fight.  But then he stopped and relaxed again.  Not as relaxed as he’d been before, but clearly no longer worried about an attack.

            “Hey Miyoshi.  Nice job getting up here quietly.  I didn’t even hear you until just now,” he said.  Something was a little off about his voice, the spies on the ground noticed.  The ones who knew him better even had time to realize it was the voice Hatano used when he knew he was in trouble, before Miyoshi spoke.

            “Are you hurt?”

            Miyoshi’s tone as much as his words made the other spies’ blood go cold.  Because they had never heard Miyoshi sound like that before. 

            “No.  It’s not mine,” said Hatano, all cheekiness and insolence gone from his voice now. 

            “That’s good.  Because that is a lot of blood.”

            Blood?

            “Hatano’s hurt?” demanded Jitsui.

            “No,” said Hatano quickly.  “I just said it’s not mine.”

            Jitsui didn’t seem to care.  He was clearly looking for a way to scale the wall and get to the roof, but nothing presented itself on this side.

            “Amari, give me a boost,” Jitsui demanded.

            “No, wait,” said Hatano.  “I’ll come down.”

            “Don’t you dare jump off that roof if you’re injured,” said Amari.

            Hatano landed on the ground several meters aware from the group.  “I’m not,” he said.  But at just a glance it was clear why Miyoshi had thought he was, and why Miyoshi’s voice had gone all tense.

            Hatano looked like hell.  His clothes were completely ruined.  His suit jacket was missing, and part of his shirt was shredded, like something with lots of sharp teeth had gotten a mouthful of it and ripped.  But that wasn’t the worst part of it.  His shirt was stained with blood, and lots of it.  The other spies could smell the tangy iron scent.  Along with something else.  Salt, and something fishy.  Almost like a beach.  His pants had not been spared from the gore either.  And one of his suspenders had been ripped, most likely by whatever had shredded his shirt.  And his shoes squelched with water when he took a few steps toward them. 

            “What the hell happened to you?” Tazaki asked finally.

            “This isn’t really the place for long explanations,” said Hatano.  “Could you – uh!  Jitsui?”

            Jitsui had taken it upon himself to make sure Hatano really was okay.  He pulled at the ripped shirt, checking under it for wounds, then circled around Hatano, making doubly sure.

            Miyoshi landed behind them.  “If he can jump down two stories and land like that, he’s probably not in immediate danger of bleeding to death.”

            “I’m fine, guys,” said Hatano.  “The shark didn’t actually bite me, just my jacket.”

            The other spies stared.

            “Shark?” Kaminaga finally asked.

            “It’s a long story,” said Hatano.  “And one I shouldn’t really be standing around in an alley telling.  My mission ended about an hour ago.  It’s just getting back is the problem, since I look like this.  I just signaled you, to see if one of you would loan me your jacket, so I can cover up this mess, and not have to take two more hours to make it another half dozen blocks unseen.”

            Almost before he finished talking, Jitsui’s jacket was draped around his shoulders.  And before he could thank the boy, Tazaki’s hat was pressed down on his head.  His friends didn’t do half measures when it came to disguises.

            “You’re coming back with us,” said Miyoshi. 

            “But I –”

            “Use your head.  There’s no better hiding place for you right now than in a group.”

            Jitsui stepped forward to straighten Hatano’s lapels and adjust the knot of his tie, fingers gripping tight.  “Don’t make me force you.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The group walked back to D-Agency with Hatano at its center, the other members shielding him from the view of other people passing by, without seeming to.  And every one of them kept an eye out for a tail, just in case.  It wasn’t that they didn’t trust Hatano when he said he had none.  They always kept an eye out naturally.  So this was one of the instances where it was safer to be in a group.

            Yuuki was coming down the stairs when they arrived back.  They saw him do a quick head count and realize that more of them had returned in the group than had left.  His expression had been tense before, but softened fractionally.  Until he focused in on Hatano, who had immediately starting stripping off Jitsui’s jacket.

            “I’m sorry.  I think I ruined it . . .”

            “Don’t worry about it.”

            “What happened?”

            Everybody flinched at Yuuki’s stern demand.  Or perhaps because they had seen Hatano in the light now, instead of in the dark of the alley.  If they thought he’d looked like hell before, when the blood had just been dark, suggestive splotches, that was nothing compared to now, when they saw the contrast of dark red on his white shirt, and the way it hung in tatters off his thin frame.

            Hatano wore a sheepish expression.  “Sorry, I’m late, Yuuki-san.  There were some complications with the mission.”

            Yuuki was very quick on the uptake.  And the fact that his other spies had escorted Hatano home, rather than to a hospital, and weren’t now frantically trying to apply pressure to any wounds gave him more reassurances than mere words could.

            “You’re not injured?” he asked finally.  He knew the answer.  That didn’t mean he didn’t want to hear it.

            “Nope.  It’s not my blood.  It’s Yamada’s,” said Hatano.  “He’s dead, by the way.  But I didn’t kill him.”

            Yuuki looked like a headache was building.  “How did he die?”

            “A shark got him.”

            “A . . . shark . . .”

            “Yamada turned on me after I gave him the info,” said Hatano.  “I don’t think he knew I was a spy, I think he just wanted to eliminate loose ends.  I had to run, but our meeting place was . . . not ideal for hiding.  I had to choose between climbing down into what I thought was just a pool of water or being out in the open for him to shoot at.  I didn’t know it was a shark tank until I was actually in the water.”

            “You hid in a shark tank?” asked Kaminaga in disbelief.

            “I just said, I didn’t know it was a shark tank.  Besides, it was just one shark and it wasn’t interested in me,” said Hatano.

            “Which is obviously why it tried to take a bite out of you,” said Jitsui, an intense, hard to read look on his face.

            “And killed your jacket,” said Miyoshi.  “And shirt.  And suspenders.”

            “Enough,” said Yuuki, to silence the other spies. 

            They quickly shut up.  They didn’t want Yuuki to order Hatano up to his office for this debriefing.  Having it in the hall here was far too amusing.

            “The shark only snapped at me when I tried to get the microfilm out of Yamada’s pocket, anyway,” said Hatano, the only one who didn’t care where this debriefing was continued.  “It thought I was trying to steal its kill.  It wasn’t really trying to kill me. This was just a warning bite. You can tell by the way it only killed my clothes instead of me.”

            “How did Yamada end up in the shark tank?” Yuuki finally asked.

            “I pulled him in,” admitted Hatano.

            Yuuki continued to stare at him.

            Hatano elaborated.  “I was holding onto these rungs on the wall that formed a ladder, since they helped me stay in one place, and not have to tread water and burn oxygen.  But I was running out of air.  Then Yamada walked by above me, and I saw my chance.  I grabbed him by the legs, pulled him in, and took his gun.  Which doesn’t count as me killing him.  It was definitely the shark that killed him.”

            “So you’re not taking any responsibility at all for his death?”

            “No.  He brought it on himself, with all his panicking, and splashing, imitating an animal in distress,” said Hatano.  “I won’t take responsibility for him inviting the shark out to eat.”

            “You’re lucky you didn’t get eaten yourself,” muttered Amari.

             “It had no interest in me.  I didn’t fall into its tank acting like easy prey.”

            “So the shark attacked Yamada, shortly after you pulled him into the tank?” prompted Yuuki, a little impatiently.  This was why he preferred debriefing his spies alone.  So they didn’t get sidetracked by each other.

            “Yes,” confirmed Hatano.  “And then I retrieved the microfilm and left the scene.”

            “And the rest got involved how, exactly?”

            “I saw them on their way home from wherever they ate and signaled them,” said Hatano.  “It was taking me a long time to make my way through the city unseen, because of the state my clothes were in.  I thought I’d just see if one of them would loan me a jacket, but . . .”  He shrugged.

            Yuuki looked at the others and gave them a very small nod of approval.  Then he held out his hand to Hatano, who stepped forward to drop a soggy matchbox into it.  Yuuki opened the matchbox and removed the roll of microfilm he’d given Hatano earlier that evening.  Or what was left of it after exposure to water.  It had contained some midlevel classified documents.  None of them too damning.  But then there had also been a few falsified documents.  Anyone trying to act on the information in them would have walked into a trap.  The masterplan had been to pinpoint whoever it was that the information broker Yamada had been selling confidential intel to, by having him pass that information along.  But the masterplan had run into a wall.

            They’d known Yamada wasn’t the most stable of people, but they hadn’t known anything about him eliminating his own sources.  Hatano had reacted the best that he could to the unexpected situation.  The outcome wasn’t perfect.  But it was preferable to losing one of his spies.  Yuuki had always stressed to them, it was better to fail a mission and avoid death or capture, than succeed and end up dead or in enemy hands.

            “I’m sorry, sir,” said Hatano.  He was apologetic, but uncowed.  Good.

            “You should be,” said Yuuki sternly.  And he crumpled up the waterlogged, salt corroded microfilm in his fist.  “Don’t risk your life retrieving something so worthless again.”

            “Yes, sir.  I mean no, sir,” said Hatano, relief creeping into his expression that he wasn’t going to be punished, or even really reprimanded for how the mission turned out.

            There were other ways to catch enemy spies and agents.  Sooner or later, Yuuki would get another chance at the ones who’d slipped away this time.  Probably sooner than later.  With Yamada gone, they would be looking for a new source of information.  Yuuki had several well placed sources.  He’d see what he could do.  Tomorrow.

            “Go clean up,” he ordered Hatano.  “The rest of you, carry on.” 

            He moved to the side as Hatano clambered up the stairs, to the showers.  Jitsui followed him.  Probably to make sure he really hadn’t gotten bit by the shark.  The others retired to the cafeteria for cards, or whatever else they felt like doing.  Yuuki had the feeling that there would be a few stiff drinks involved tonight, after the scare Hatano must have given them, showing up looking like he’d just stepped out of a murder mystery. 

            Yuuki shook his head as he walked back to his office.  Taking refuge from gunfire in a shark tank.  And Yuuki thought he’d done some crazy things back when he was in the field. 

            Well, at least this helped him make his mind up about which of the two long-term assignments he was giving to each of his two youngest spies.  Jitsui would be the one he placed in Shirahata’s villa.  Hatano would go to France.  There were always so many more things that could go wrong in a foreign country.  Yuuki was sure that Jitsui would be able to adapt and survive too, if he was placed in such a situation, but so far all his assignments had gone smoothly.  Hatano’s had gone south.  So Hatano was the only one of the two who’d had the chance so far to prove he would do what it took to survive.  Even if what it took was throwing someone to the sharks.

 

* * *

 

 

            Notes: I’m sure I’m not the only one who saw Hatano in the shark tank, in that end credits pic and wondered just what he was doing in there.  And how he explained it to Yuuki-san. :P

 

            I know I’m having Hatano play kind of fast and loose with the “Don’t die, don’t kill” rule, since he technically did have a hand in Yamada’s death.  But since “Don’t die” comes before “Don’t kill,” in their motto, I think that the former is more important to them than the latter.  And since we saw Yuuki leave a trail of bodies on his way out of Germany in his misspent youth, there’s precedent for the rule being broken, or at least tolerance for putting enemies in mortal peril, if the spies are in life threatening situations.

            And Hatano didn’t actually intend to kill that guy, believe it or not.  (What?  You don’t believe it?  Why ever not?  Lol)  He and the shark were just chilling together in the tank, so Hatano did think something along the lines of, “Well, I guess he’s not hungry.”  Then he pulled Yamada into the tank, thinking that a sneak attack to get possession of the gun was exactly how he could get himself out of this alive.  Then Yamada’s panicking and splashing got Jaws’s attention, and Hatano had to amend his thinking to, “Well, I guess he was hungry after all.”  Then he got back the microfilm, got a bite taken out of his clothes (in addition to Yamada’s blood all over him), and got the heck out of there, because the gunshots were going to bring the police, and Hatano didn’t have the time or means to retrieve a corpse from a shark and get rid of it. 

 

Update: Please check out Tivanny's wonderful fanart for this chapter.  Here we have Hatano, after meeting up with the other D-boys and being corralled into returning home with their group, so they can help shield him from view.  But we get a very nice view ourselves in this picture, of Hatano's bare back. ;)  <http://tivanny2292.tumblr.com/image/149927801801>  #When Shark attacks are sexy   #New level of Joker Game Hell discovered    #Hatano's bare back


	11. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people just can't handle it.
> 
> (Warning. The consumption of any liquids while reading this chapter is not advised.)

            “Miyoshi.  I really hate your forehead.”

            _“Excuse me?”_

            To provide a bit of context to this bizarre conversation, it should be made clear that a spy’s training was always ongoing.  Every member of the fledgling D-Agency had passed numerous tests and tasks, both physical and mental.  They were capable of feats that would leave most men curled up and melting into a puddle, or staring at a chalk board, rocking back and forth, in the dark.  But it wasn’t like they just completed all those tests and Lt. Colonel Yuuki was like, “Well, congrats boys. You’re spies now.  There’s nothing else for you to learn.”

            Nope.  The game was constantly evolving.  New “uncrackable” safes and locks were coming out all the time.  New truth serums took longer, both to make it into the field, and for D-Agency to acquire samples of for testing, but when they did, Yuuki made sure they were all eventually exposed to the new drugs, so that they’d avoid any nasty surprises if they had it used on them in the field.

            He ran truth serum tests on one spy at a time.  Giving it to all eight at once would have been a disaster.  And on the days when any truth serum was tested, the other spies knew to tread lightly around whoever had tested it.  And that spy usually isolated himself for several hours anyway.  But that wasn’t in any way a guarantee of avoiding disaster.  Some truth serums worked differently than others.  Lasted longer, or made them more loose-lipped.  And the spies reacted differently to them as well, since each one’s metabolism and tolerance levels were different.  They were guaranteed privacy and solitude in the agency’s tiny infirmary, where they could wait and recover as the drug’s effects wore off.  But how long they stayed there was ultimately up to them, and they were free to leave at any time.

            So that was how Miyoshi found himself being confronted by a glassy-eyed Odagiri one evening, as all the spies sat down to dinner. 

            “You heard me.  I really hate your forehead.  In fact, I really don’t like your face.  Any part of it,” said Odagiri, and the funniest part was, he sounded completely serious.  Not drugged, or drunk, not slurring his words.  He just sounded like he honestly didn’t like Miyoshi’s face. 

            The other spies all watched with wide eyes and bated breath as Miyoshi wrestled with offense and amusement.  For several moments it seemed that being irate would win out.  But then Miyoshi managed to reign his temper in, probably only because he knew Odagiri was drugged and couldn’t help his impropriety.  And because his narcissistic personality equated this to Odagiri simply being wrong and stupid rather than there really being anything wrong with his face.  “What’s wrong with it?” he finally asked.

            “It’s too pretty,” said Odagiri.  “You should do yourself a favor and ugly up some.  Don’t you have any pride in yourself as a man?”

            Predictably, it was Hatano who was the first to start cackling.  “Odagiri, that was awesome!  I think you’re my new hero!”

            Odagiri barely spared him a glance.  “That’s too bad, Hatano, because I don’t feel the same.  You’re my least favorite person here.”

            Of course that only made Hatano laugh harder.

            Fukumoto stood up and gripped Odagiri’s upper arm, pulling him out of his seat.  “I think perhaps you need more time to let the truth serum wear off, Odagiri.”

            “Oh no, let him stay,” cajoled Kaminaga.  “This is the most amusing thing I’ve seen in days.”

            “That’s only because you can’t see yourself while you’re eating,” said Odagiri.  “If you want to talk about amusing, your table manners are the textbook definition.  You look like a pig trying to cram food in your mouth.”

            “Hey!”

            “Alright.  Let’s go, Odagiri,” said Fukumoto, pulling him out of the cafeteria.

            “When you’re so forceful like this, it makes me wonder if you’re actually planning to take me somewhere and have your way with me.”

            Amari had made the mistake of taking a drink right then.  His wine ended up all over Tazaki.  The last thing Fukumoto and Odagiri heard as the cafeteria door shut behind them was Amari stuttering apologies, and the disgruntled cooing of however many pigeons Tazaki had been hiding in his jacket. 

            Fukumoto manhandled Odagiri down the hallway, and up the stairs, to the dorm, and shut the door behind them.  Then neither man could hold it back anymore.  Odagiri doubled over laughing.  Fukumoto left one hand on his friend’s shoulder, and used the other to cover his own face, trying to muffle his own reaction so the others wouldn’t hear him roaring with amusement.

            “The look on Miyoshi’s face,” Odagiri huffed.

            “And Kaminaga’s.  But still.  Miyoshi did not have a tantrum.  Pay up.”

            Odagiri found his wallet and handed Fukumoto a bill.  “But you owe me change.  I got one of our colleagues to spit out his drink.  On another, no less.”

            Fukumoto got out his own wallet, accepted the larger bill from Odagiri, and handed him a smaller one.

            “Oh.  This seems really interesting,” said Jitsui, suddenly right beside them, and both of the taller spies jumped.  “So you were just faking lingering effects of truth serum?”

            Fukumoto looked at the door.  It was wide open.  But that door squeaked horribly.  How had Jitsui?

            “Yes,” Odagiri admitted, looking slightly worried.  Everyone in D-Agency knew that Jitsui had to be handled very carefully, at all times.

            “Well, I think that’s hilarious.  But I don’t think Miyoshi would be so tolerant if he found out you weren’t doped up when you said that.”  Jitsui said thoughtfully.  “I wonder, what’s my silence worth to you?”

            Fukumoto handed Jitsui a bill.

            Jitsui accepted it, flashed his angel smile, then turned to Odagiri expectantly.

            Odagiri sighed and forked over the bill that Fukumoto had only moments ago handed him.

            “Thank you!” said Jitsui, looking like a kid who’d just been given candy.  He tucked the money away, then disappeared out the dormitory door, shutting it behind him, the door’s hinges squeaking horribly.

            “How do you think he knew?” asked Odagiri.

            “He probably figured it out when you said Hatano was your least favorite person here,” said Fukumoto.  Of course Jitsui would know that he himself held that dubious honor.

            “Oh.  Yes.  I guess that would do it,” said Odagiri.  “Damn brat.”

 

 

            Notes: It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.


	12. Tight Laced 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That time the 160 cm trio crashed Sakuma's army buddies' night out. Dressed in drag.

            “Excuse me, Lieutenant.  May I have this dance?” asked a silky, sultry voice, right in Sakuma’s ear.

            He jumped slightly in surprise, and set down his beer, taking in his friends’ blank expressions, before slowly twisting around in his seat, to face . . .

             . . . the sort of dame who looked like she belonged in the American Hollywood pictures.  She was a beauty; slender, and elegant, with short, dark, red-tinted locks that curled slightly at the ends, and the plumpest, reddest lips Sakuma had ever seen.  And there was something else about her.  Something . . . familiar.  And special.  He felt his lips go dry as he met her gleaming brown cat-like eyes.

            And then it hit him.

            Miyoshi.

            He wanted to sigh and shake his head at the shameless antics of this spy.  Instead his eyes, almost involuntarily, dropped down from Miyoshi’s face, to his body, and he took in the outfit he had chosen for this little cross dressing escapade.

            The dress was a deep, midnight blue.  For some reason, Sakuma would have expected Miyoshi to be in red.  But the blue color actually really suited him.  There were threads woven into the fabric that seemed to be silver, and they sparkled like stars under the beerhall’s lights.  Miyoshi’s figure . . . he must have figured out how to get those corsets to work, because he suddenly had curves in all the right places.  And his chest was padded so he looked like he had a reasonable sized bosom.  Silver shoes twinkled on his feet, with straps that laced up past his slender ankles.  And a silver collar-like necklace, with a dark blue gem shone on his throat, covering up his Adam’s apple.  Anyone would have taken him to be a woman.  And an extremely attractive woman at that.  He’d done something to his eyes with makeup, to make them look both smoky and crystal clear at the same time, and his creamy skin was tinted with just a hint of a blush at his cheekbones.

            “Well, Lieutenant?  You sure know how to keep a girl waiting,” said Miyoshi, smirking, but somehow still looking feminine and coquettish.

            Damn him.

            “Lady, if he won’t dance with you, I will,” said one of Sakuma’s army buddies across the table, standing up. 

            Miyoshi barely spared that guy a glance, before piercing Sakuma with his gaze.  “Lieutenant.  Dance with me.”

            It was more of a command than a request.  But one that, if he did not heed, would cause Sakuma a world of problems.  Knowing he was damned if he did, but damned even worse if he didn’t, Sakuma stood and offered Miyoshi his arm.  Miyoshi wrapped delicate looking fingers, nails painted a shiny cherry red, around his bicep and hung closely to him as Sakuma led him to the dance floor.

            “What are you doing, Miyoshi?” Sakuma whispered as soon as they were out of earshot of his army buddies.

            Miyoshi was laughing with his eyes as he looked at Sakuma.  “Dancing.”

            “What game are you playing?” he demanded.

            “No game, Sakuma-san,” said Miyoshi, and he batted his eyes.  “Now shut up and dance with m- ah!”

            “He’s mine!” Hatano screamed in a voice pitched much higher than normal, ramming into Miyoshi, sending the taller spy stumbling and struggling to balance in his heels.  “Keep your paws off the Lieutenant, you hussy!”

            Sakuma gaped, stupidly, because what the hell?  He saw Miyoshi’s expression go from being genuinely startled, to angry.

            “You –”

            “Are you not woman enough to catch a man of your own?  Is that why you’re here trying to steal my man?” demanded Hatano, planting himself firmly between Sakuma and Miyoshi. 

            Like Miyoshi . . . Hatano was also dressed in women’s clothing.  Corset included, from the way his silky green dress was clinging to his curves.  His dress was cut daringly high, almost to the point of being indecent.  Black pantyhose covered his legs, and melded into a pair of shiny black kitten heels.  And he wore long green gloves to match his dress.  Now he clenched his fists in them and stamped one foot, the very picture of an outraged young woman.

            “Why?” Sakuma asked the universe.  “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

            “What are you doing?” hissed Miyoshi very softly, glaring daggers at Hatano.  No one could have heard what he was saying unless they were close by, but they could certainly guess.

            “I’m tired of you stealing my men!  Won’t you let me have just one good man without trying to take him for yourself?” wailed Hatano.  Then he threw himself at Miyoshi and a catfight broke out.

            Sakuma’s jaw just dropped.  He didn’t even know . . . 

            “Lieutenant,” said another soft voice, right beside him.  “Good evening.”

            It was only because he’d already been exposed to two other spies cross dressing that evening that Sakuma was able to recognize Jitsui, in his very feminine pink and white yukata, with its cherry blossom pattern.  The petit spy wore a black wig to make it look like he had very long black hair that had been pinned up in an elaborate twist.  His makeup made his face look lily pale, and his lips looked very delicate and pink. 

            “Why are you doing this?” asked Sakuma, watching as Hatano got the best of Miyoshi in their little catfight and pulled at Miyoshi’s hair.  Amazingly, it didn’t come off – oh wait.  A handful of it was ripped out of Miyoshi’s head, as though it was his real hair, rather than a wig.  How?

            “We discovered a newer, more reliable method for changing our hair than wigs,” explained Jitsui, pulling out a delicate little sandalwood fan and shyly covering the lower half of his face.  “We use a sort of gum-like substance to glue pieces directly to our scalps.  That way, if it comes to hair pulling, our disguises don’t just crumble.”

            “Wonderful.  And why are you doing this, again?” asked Sakuma.

            “Well, Miyoshi thought it would be fun to crash your night out with your army buddies and force you to dance with him,” said Jitsui.  “And Hatano thought it would be fun to embarrass you and annoy Miyoshi by starting a catfight with him.  And I thought it would be fun to stand by and watch you watching them.  So, essentially, all three of us are doing this for fun.”

            “Fun,” muttered Sakuma.  “Right.”

            Jitsui gave a very feminine giggle.  “It really is.”

            “So Miyoshi didn’t know Hatano was going to jump him?”

            “Oh no.  His surprise was genuine,” said Jitsui.  “Miyoshi will probably get him back later.  But I think this was definitely worth it.”

            Employees of the beerhall were trying to separate the two fighting spies.  But Hatano wasn’t having it.  He twisted out of their grasping hands and struck them in sensitive areas, making it look like it was an accident whenever he hit someone.  Then he broke free and rushed to Sakuma’s side, and grabbed his arm.

            “Run away with me, Sakuma-san!” he cried, clinging desperately.

            “W-what?”

            “Let’s leave this place far behind!”

            “I don’t –”

            “Whatever she told you about me was all lies!  Please!  Don’t leave me for her!  Come away with me!  We can run away together!”

            “This is where you should break Hatano’s heart by professing your undying devotion to your duty,” advised Jitsui.

            “You guys . . .” Sakuma wanted to groan and facepalm.

            “Please remember that you have an audience,” said Jitsui.  And Sakuma glanced over his shoulder and saw that yes, of course, every single one of his friends and acquaintances from the General Staff Offices was staring at the scene Hatano had caused.

            “How the hell am I going to explain this?” Sakuma muttered.

            SLAP.

            Sakuma nearly staggered from the blow.

            “You cad!” Hatano cried.  “How dare you trifle with my maiden heart?  You told me that you loved me!  Was that all lies, Sakuma-san?  Was it all just a game all along?”

            “Hatano –”

            SLAP

            “You told her that you loved her?” asked Miyoshi, looking livid, as Sakuma rubbed his swelling jaw.  “You told me I was the only one for you?  And all this time you were two timing on me with that bit of puff pastry?”

            “Who are you calling puff pastry?” demanded Hatano.  And their fighting began anew.

            “How do I get out of this?” Sakuma asked Jitsui, only remembering too late that he should expect no mercy from D-Agency’s petit sadist.

            He knew that it had definitely been a mistake when Jitsui’s eyes lit up and he held out one hand to Sakuma.  And knowing that he would regret this, but seeing no way out now, Sakuma took Jitsui’s hand.

            “Now place your other hand on my hip,” instructed Jitsui.

            “What?”

            Jitsui took Sakuma’s hand and placed it on his hip.  “Now.  Dance with me, Lieutenant.”

            “I hate you all,” Sakuma groaned, as Jitsui maneuvered them both closer to the dance floor, then pulled him into a waltz.

            Out the corner of his eye, he could see Hatano and Miyoshi being escorted out of the beerhall by multiple employees, each cross dressing spy lashing out at one another occasionally as they called catty remarks back and forth to each other.  And then, as their dance’s pattern took them past a certain table, Sakuma saw a certain silver haired man with a glove over one hand, a beer on the table in front of him, and a smirk on his face.

                                          

 

* * *

 

 

Notes: Yuuki-san came to make sure Sakuma didn’t take advantage of his granddaughters.  But in the end, Jitsui was the only one who ended up getting to dance with the lieutenant, and Yuuki is 100 percent confident that if Sakuma tried to take more than Jitsui wanted to give, Jitsui would castrate him on the spot.  Miyoshi sulked for a month about missing his opportunity to dance with his lieutenant, but the others thought the amusement was totally worth it.  (And in the end, Sakuma was considered cooler and more popular than ever with his army buddies, who thought that he was a player.)

 

Very important question: Whose dress did you think sounded the prettiest? :P

 

On another note, this chapter now has fan art!  To see Jimmi's wonderful picture of Hatano in his pretty green dress, about to throw a tantrum, check out this link: <http://i-dedicate-this-kill-to-the-fans.tumblr.com/image/148971738064>!

 


	13. Like Grandfather, Like Grandson?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the D-boys notice some startling similarities between Hatano and Yuuki, and can’t help but wonder . . . has Hatano been calling Yuuki “Grandfather” as more than just a joke?
> 
> Takes place in early 1941. aLIvE-verse compliant. References a couple of my other fics too, particularly “The Voyage Home.”

            D-Agency was full of secrets.  Everyone who lived and worked there was hiding so much from each other, that anyone who wasn’t one of them would have been at a loss as to how there could be any trust amongst them at all.  But the secrets didn’t just stop with the Agency’s inhabitants.  Nowhere close.

            A wealth of intelligence was concealed within the building too.  Yuuki’s office held many interesting things, though he had taken precautions to make sure nothing truly damning could be obtained if an enemy agent ever managed to make it into his office.  And caches of other interesting intel were hidden throughout the building.  Some in plain sight.

            It was dumb luck, nothing more, that led to Amari finding the file.  Yuuki’s file.  The one that contained a coded record of the missions he’d undertaken when he was active in the field.  It was hidden inside a book about tax law that Amari accidentally knocked off the shelf when he was retrieving nearby books about outdated Korean legislation for Miyoshi. 

            Kaminaga and Jitsui, who had been perusing shelves nearby, looked up at the sound of falling papers, then automatically went to help pick them up. 

            “What is that?” Amari asked, joining them as soon as he’d removed the books he thought Miyoshi wanted from the second highest shelf, and setting them on the floor so he could pick up the papers with them.

            “Looks like something of Yuuki’s,” said Kaminaga.

            “We’ll probably never know what,” added Jitsui, but he didn’t look like he particularly cared.  At least not until a loose photograph drifted down from the small pile of papers he’d collected, and onto the floor.

            Amari’s eyes widened as they took in a familiar sight.  A youth with dark hair, parted in the middle, wearing a workman’s white collared shirt and suspenders, was sitting in a chair, arms bound behind him, and sneering defiance at the camera.  Hatano?

            He could tell that recognition had caught up to Kaminaga and Jitsui at the same time, because he heard Kaminaga make a slightly choked sound, and Jitsui took in a breath sharply.  Both reached for the photograph at the same time.  Kaminaga snatched it up first.

            “Give that to me,” Jitsui demanded immediately.

            “This . . . this is . . .” Kaminaga stared at the picture uncertainly.

            “Give it to me.”

            “What’s going on?” asked Miyoshi, from the center of the library, where he was waiting at the long table they used for studying.

            “Give it here, Kaminaga,” said Jitsui.  “I’ll not ask nicely again.”

            “Is that?” Amari asked, moving so that he could look over Kaminaga’s shoulder at the picture.

            “Guys?” asked Tazaki, his voice coming from just by Miyoshi’s.

            Kaminaga had been standing so stiffly that he could have been standing at attention.  And his eyes had grown dark and haunted.  Amari didn’t even think he had heard Jitsui’s increasingly threatening demands.  But suddenly, all the tension drained right out of him, and he sagged with relief.  “It’s not him.  It’s not Hatano.”

            Jitsui snatched the picture out of his grasp and studied it.  Amari moved again, so he could look over Jitsui’s shoulder.  He could tell the moment that Jitsui came to the same conclusion as Kaminaga had.  Even though Jitsui’s reaction was much less telegraphed.  Just a slight easing of the tension lines around his eyes, and a loosening of the jaw muscles that he had clenched.  And a voluntary surrender of the photograph to Amari.  If that really had been Hatano in the picture, no one would have ever been able to pry it out of Jitsui’s hands.

            When he was able to study it, uninterrupted for several seconds, Amari saw that they were right.  And he too felt a surge of relief.  It wasn’t Hatano in the picture.  His features were wrong.  And the proportions.  If the young man had been standing, they would have seen it immediately, but sitting down, it had taken them longer to see.  He was too long limbed and lanky to be Hatano.  Even so, his hairstyle was very similar.  And the clothes he’d been wearing were cut almost identically to the ones Hatano had worn in France. 

            “Did you find something interesting?” asked Miyoshi.  He and Tazaki now stood at the end of the row of bookshelves, looking curious.

            “We’re not sure what we found,” said Amari honestly, and he handed the picture over.

            He saw a slight tension cross both the other spies’ faces as they studied the photograph, but only because he was looking for it.  And he even saw when Tazaki accepted what they had announced.  That the photo’s subject wasn’t Hatano.  But Miyoshi . . . his expression actually went slightly incredulous for a moment.  He turned the picture over, checking the back for a date, but found none.  Then he turned it right side up again and brought it closer to his face.

            “These features are familiar.  I don’t think I’m mistaken . . . this is Yuuki-san in this photograph.”

            Many eyebrows raised at that, and the spies all crowded around again to see.  And now that he was looking for it, Amari could see it.  Yes, those sharp cheekbones.  The jawline.  Even the eyes, if you took away twenty years or so from Yuuki-san’s.

            “The pattern of graininess around the edges of this image is consistent with German cameras,” said Kaminaga after they’d all had time to confirm the photo’s subject.  “And the discoloration of the paper says it was developed between twenty and twenty-five years ago.”

            They accepted his analysis wordlessly, with a few nods and solemn glances all around.  All of them knew they were all thinking the same thing.  This was most likely a picture taken during that fateful mission where Yuuki-san had been sold out by his own country.  The country he was still serving.  The country they were all serving now.  That mission where Yuuki-san had been captured by the same German spy hunter who’d made their rescue mission in Germany so dangerous. 

            The mood that had overtaken them was grim now.  Amari tried to think of something to say to bring it up, and get the other men away from their dark thoughts.

            “Well, he sure looked a lot like Hatano in his youth.”  He said the first thing to pop into his mind.  In hindsight, that probably hadn’t been a good idea.  A few sharp glances were sent his way.  But Kaminaga actually looked thoughtful.

            “Hey . . . wasn’t the hairstyle Hatano was using in France the same as the one Yuuki-san uses now?” he asked.

            The others looked at him a bit warily.

            “More or less,” said Tazaki after a few seconds.

            “You think it’s a coincidence?” Kaminaga asked them.

            “Why wouldn’t it be?” Miyoshi inquired.

            “Well . . . we’ve got an awful lot of similarities here,” said Kaminaga.  “And you know what Yuuki-san always says about coincidence.”

            “Hatano’s hair style now being very similar to Yuuki-san’s hairstyle when he was young.  His hairstyle when he was in disguise being nearly identical to Yuuki’s hairstyle now.  And them wearing clothes that are almost identical . . . the same kind of collared shirt.  And the same penchant for suspenders,” Amari listed them all.  “But if they’re not coincidences, what are you getting at?  What do you think they all mean?”

            “Why would Yuuki-san want Hatano looking like him?  Or dressing like him?” asked Tazaki.  “I don’t see anything either of them could gain from that.”

            “No,” agreed Kaminaga, “No one gains much from looking like their other family members.  But people still like to look like their family members, don’t they?”

            Dead silence met this remark.

            “Or are you gentlemen telling me that you’re willing to accept all these similarities as coincidences on top of the facts that Yuuki-san literally lets Hatano get away with murder, and that Hatano never passes up an opportunity to call Yuuki-san ‘Grandfather?’”

            “You’re saying you think they’re actually related?” asked Jitsui incredulously.

            “They do seem pretty close . . .” said Amari.

            “But they haven’t always been,” pointed out Tazaki.  “Hatano wasn’t much closer to Yuuki-san than the rest of us were before their trip back from France.”

            “But Yuuki-san was a little closer to him than us, even then,” Kaminaga said.  “I at least got the feeling that Yuuki-san was keeping an extra eye out for him.”

            “But he was keeping an extra eye on Jitsui as well,” said Miyoshi.  “He likely already had plans for the roles that they ended up in, and needed at least one of them to make it through so he could put his plans into place.  None of the rest of us could have passed as a recent high school graduate.”

            “You know, it could have been an act,” said Amari.  “Them pretending that they were no closer than normal, or at least not much closer back then, then acting like they bonded on their voyage home from France.  And if it was an act, it was a good one.  Did any of us suspect a thing before right now?”

            There was more silence as everyone thought this over.

            “Yuuki-san is a master of deception,” said Kaminaga, finally breaking it. 

            “I don’t believe it,” said Jitsui.

            “Neither do I,” Miyoshi agreed.

            “I’m kind of on the fence about it,” admitted Tazaki. 

            Miyoshi closed his eyes for a moment and gave a little sigh.  “Please remember what we’ve managed to glean about Hatano’s upbringing.  Actually, I’ll just flat out say it.  We all know by now that, martial arts practitioning aside, Hatano came from a violent, abusive home.  Do any of you truly believe Yuuki-san would have left him there, knowing that?”

            Kaminaga shrugged.  “He’s here now, isn’t he?”

            “You want to make an argument that a member of his family could be in an abusive home for over fifteen years and Yuuki-san would remain unaware of it?” Miyoshi asked.

            “If he was in deep cover, then yes,” said Kaminaga.

            “Or if he’d cut ties with his family and stayed away for their protection,” added Amari.

            “He’s not omniscient,” said Tazaki.

            “So you’re taking their side?” asked Jitsui.

            “I’m leaning toward it,” said Tazaki.  “I think Yuuki-san would be disappointed in us for not at least exploring possible reasons for all these coincidences.”

            “Oh, but there’s something you’re not taking into account,” said Miyoshi, looking amused.

            “What’s that?” challenged Kaminaga.

            Miyoshi studied his nails, smirking slightly.  “Is there any one among us who hasn’t confided a thing or two that we shouldn’t have to our closest comrades here?”

            Shrugs all around as they waited for Miyoshi to make his point.

            “Well, given how close Hatano is to a certain someone here, I’d wager all of this year’s paychecks that he’s told more than a few things about his home life to . . . that person,” said Miyoshi.

            All eyes turned to Jitsui, who kept a perfect poker face in place.  He could have been a porcelain doll for all the information he gave away.

            “Yet that someone, who we know to be very analytical and open minded, flat out rejected the theory that Hatano could be Yuuki-san’s actual grandson,” said Miyoshi.  “You don’t think that means something?”

            “You don’t think he could be lying to cover for Hatano?” Kaminaga returned.

            “Did you think to watch him for tells when he spoke against your theories?” Miyoshi shot back, as he turned his back to them and started walking back toward the center of the room.  Realizing the reason for his sudden departure, the others followed, taking their conversation to the study table at the center of the library, where Miyoshi slid into the closest chair, much less elegantly than usual, exhausted from standing so long while he was still recovering from his injuries.

            “I should point out that Miyoshi could be lying about this as well,” said Jitsui, sitting down almost primly beside their resident narcissist.  “He does have a history of convoluting issues of debate for his own amusement.”

            “So Jitsui was either lying or not lying, and I could or could not be lying about him lying or not lying, and now Jitsui could either be lying or not lying about whether or not I was lying or not,” clarified Miyoshi.

            Amari sighed.  “Why does it always turn out like this?”

            “I don’t know,” said Kaminaga, shaking his head, “But it keeps me up at night.”

            Miyoshi chuckled.  And then the conversation drifted to another topic, as by general, unspoken consensus, the spies all agreed that there would be no further progress on whether or not Yuuki-san and Hatano were related without more information on the matter.  That, and Miyoshi seemed likely to derail any attempts at further discussing it by tripping them up with linguistics at every turn, just because he felt like it.

            But even so, Amari couldn’t so easily put the issue out of his mind.  When he’d first seen that photograph, he really had thought he was staring at a picture of Hatano.  The resemblance Hatano bore to Yuuki when Yuuki was younger was really quite startling.  Then add in all the other little things, and it really couldn’t be dismissed so easily. 

            In all honestly, Amari knew that they would probably never know for certain, whether Yuuki really was Hatano’s grandfather, or if they were otherwise related, or not.  But on the bright side, that just meant that from now on they’d be watching their interactions like hawks and overanalyzing every little detail of them, in the name of trying to figure it out.  And for fun. 

 

* * *

Notes: This chapter was inspired by this picture drawn by Tivanny: <http://tivanny2292.tumblr.com/image/149744778726>  for one of my other fics, “Torture and Truth Serum.”  (Thank you Tivanny!)  But when I saw Hatano, sitting there, smirking defiantly like that, I couldn’t help but marvel how much he looks like ~~his grandfather~~ Yuuki when he was younger.  And then I went back and rewatched Eps 3 and 10, and saw that the similarities are real!  Coincidence?  Or conspiracy? 

 

One more thing of note: Jimmi drew me some fanart for last chapter.  Please enjoy this picture of Hatano in his pretty green dress, right before he starts a catfight. ^^; <http://i-dedicate-this-kill-to-the-fans.tumblr.com/image/148971738064>

 


	14. Allergic Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tazaki has an allergic reaction while testing out a new truth serum. And mistakes Yuuki for his mother.

            Yuuki knew that the truth serum test had gone sideways when Tazaki’s face started swelling.  Not terribly.  His features weren’t horribly distorted.  It was more like how he looked when he stuffed his mouth with cotton to change the shape of his face.  Chubby-cheeked enough to look noticeably different from normal, but not so bad that he wouldn’t be able to go out in public.  If he could have gone out in public.  Yuuki wouldn’t let any of his spies out of the Agency for a full day after a truth serum test.  And now that Tazaki had this kind of reaction to it, Yuuki would be monitoring him constantly for the next twelve hours.  He wouldn’t let Tazaki be alone, in case it got worse, and his throat swelled shut.  He refused to lose one of his spies so stupidly.

            “Tazaki,” Yuuki said, trying not to sound as stern as usual, as he informed his spy of the bad news.  “I believe you’re having an allergic reaction to the truth serum.”

            “Tha’s not my real name,” slurred Tazaki.

            “I’m aware,” said Yuuki.  He lifted Tazaki’s hand with his artificial one, and used two of the fingers on his real hand to take the young spy’s pulse.

            “Tha’s not your real hand,” continued Tazaki.

            “No, it’s not.”  Yuuki couldn’t really take offense when Tazaki was drugged like this.  Besides, Tazaki was only stating a fact. 

            “Your limp’s fake too.”  Tazaki coughed.  Yuuki looked at him sharply, in concern.  Was his throat swelling?  But no, the cough seemed like an isolated incident.  “But I didn’ figure i’ on my own.  Hatano tol’ me.  I think he knew all ‘long.”

            “That is entirely possible,” agreed Yuuki. 

            “I like Hatano.  He kinda remin’s me of a pigeon,” Tazaki confided in Yuuki.

            “Does he now?”

            “Yeah.”  Tazaki nodded.  “Hatano.  Hatto-no.  You shoulda named him tha’ instead.”

            “Perhaps.  But then I believe you would have been jealous,” said Yuuki.

            “Yeah.  But maybe he woulda traded with me,” said Tazaki.  “Would that have been allowed?”

            “It never came up,” said Yuuki, to avoid having to answer. 

            “Huh.  I wonder why,” muttered Tazaki.

            Yuuki set down Tazaki’s hand, satisfied that his pulse hadn’t reached a dangerous high or low level.  Though Tazaki’s fingers were swelling a little too, he saw with concern.  Like his face, not too terribly.  A bit worse than they’d swell if he was out in the cold too long, but not to the point where they looked grotesque. 

            “How do you feel, Tazaki?” Yuuki asked.

            “Floaty,” muttered Tazaki.  “A little numb.  And a little sad.”

            “Sad?” Yuuki asked.

            “Yeah.”

            Yuuki hesitated.  It was none of his business.  Unless depression turned out to be an added side effect to this allergic reaction?  “Do you know why you feel sad?”

            “Because,” Tazaki lifted his head and stared at Yuuki accusingly.  “You forgot my birthday!”

            Yuuki blinked.

            “I’m your only son.  You shouldn’ forget!” Tazaki looked indignant.

            Yuuki blinked again.  “Tazaki . . . just who do you think I am?”

            “You’re Mom,” said Tazaki matter of factly.  “My mom.”

            “. . .”

            “. . .”

            “. . .”

            “. . .”

            “ . . . I’m not your mother, Tazaki,” stated Yuuki, finally.

            “You’re denying tha’ now?” Tazaki looked crestfallen.  “I guess I shoulda expected tha’, with Dad disownin’ me an’ all.  Bu’ i’s not my fault you’re both stupid.”

            Yuuki forced himself not to look away, as most men would have done when they found themselves . . . sort of intruding on so private a matter.  He had been aware of Tazaki’s problems with his family.  He’d even taken advantage of it, to recruit him.  With his Oxford education, Tazaki had been well aware that the Japanese emperor was no god, but his parents had taken his opinion on the matter as blasphemy.  And in their idiocy, they’d put their misguided faith before their son.

            “Your parents are stupid,” Yuuki agreed.  He might have felt a little bit guilty about being glad over that fact.  But it wasn’t like he had caused Tazaki’s parents to be stupid.  They’d adopted the national cult mentality all on their own.  And he couldn’t be faulted for snatching up the treasure they’d cast out like trash.  Dumbasses. 

            “Nah ah,” Tazaki protested.  “You don’ get to talk abou’ my mom like that!”

            “And just who do you think I am now?” asked Yuuki.

            Tazaki stared at him, seemingly baffled. 

            “Do you know who I am now, Tazaki?” Yuuki asked.

            “You’re Mom,” said Tazaki again, smiling suddenly.  “My mom.”

            So they were back to that. 

            “Hey Mom?”

            “I’m not your mother, Tazaki.”

            “I think I’m sick, Mom.”

            “What are your symptoms?” asked Yuuki.  Because he did need to know.  And if Tazaki was in the talkative mood, he might as well put that to use.

            “Hot an’ cold,” said Tazaki.  “Face numb.  Tongue thick.  Hands tingly.  Jus’ feel yucky.”

            “I should inform you, you’re not sick per say,” said Yuuki.  “You’re having an allergic reaction to the truth serum I was testing on you.  What you’re feeling now are side effects of your body’s reaction to the drug.”

            Tazaki stared at him blankly.  Yuuki wondered if he’d actually absorbed a word of that.

            “I feel sick, Mom,” said Tazaki finally.  “Will you make me egg and noodle soup?”

            Yuuki sighed.  But then Tazaki shivered, and the stern reply he’d been about to make died in his mouth.  Instead, he grabbed the blanket at the foot of the infirmary bed, unfolded it and used it to cover Tazaki.  Then he put his hand on Tazaki’s forehead, because he did need to confirm whether or not the drug was giving Tazaki a fever.  He nearly started when Tazaki leaned into his touch, and looked down to find his spy staring up at him, wide-eyed, clearly waiting for an answer to his question about the egg and noodle soup.

            Yuuki sighed again.  “I’ll see what Fukumoto can do.”

 

 

* * *

 

Notes: Fukumoto was only too happy to make egg and noodle soup for his sick friend.  And thankfully for Yuuki, Tazaki didn’t insist on being spoon fed.  Though he did demand Yuuki read to him.  Luckily there was a copy of _Pharmaceutical Substances and their Properties_ on hand in the clinic.  So boring, it put Tazaki right to sleep.  (At least you were spared having to sing this time, Yuuki-san!)

 

Sorry for going so long without an update to this fic.  Hopefully my other fics I was working on kept you entertained in the meantime?  But since last updating, Tivanny drew me some more fanart for the Tight Laced 2 chapter.  Now I have the whole set for the dresses that the 160 cm trio was wearing!  Please enjoy foxy Miyoshi in his blue plate special dress.  I call it that, because he is quite a dish, is he not?  Okay, I know that’s a horrible pun.  Feel free to throw things at me, lol.  But the artwork is amazing, no?  <http://tivanny2292.tumblr.com/image/150581720511>

 

And here we have Jitsui, pretty as a princess in his pink kimono, and so coquettish with his little ornamental fan in hand.  Any man in that beerhall would have been proud to have such a prize on his arm.  Except Sakuma, who had his heart set on Miyoshi.  That’s definitely the reason for that wonderful expression he’s making.  You can’t convince me otherwise.  <http://tivanny2292.tumblr.com/image/150027373416>

 

And, one final note, and this is kind of a personal request for help, but I’m looking for some WWII spy novels.  Specifically ones that feature an American spymaster, operating in Europe during the war.  Preferably in France, but in nearby countries also works.  And if possible, and I know this is a very long shot, but I’m looking for a spymaster who’s also a good man.  Kind of like Yuuki, who wouldn’t leave his spies out to dry if he could prevent it, and would never deliberately betray them.  I know I’m being stupidly specific, and it’s a very long shot, but if you know of any book with a character that’s even similar to what I described, please let me know!  It would be a huge help. :)


	15. The Perfect Recipe (For Disaster)

Takes place the day after “The Perfect Recipe” (Chapter 5)

 

 

            It was dark when Sakuma arrived at D-Agency.  Which was unusual, since it was only early evening.  Schools and most day time businesses had let out their employees for the night, but the sun was still going down.  Yet no lights were on in D-Agency.  Usually someone was around.  Sakuma wondered if something was going on.

            He let himself in and checked the cafeteria.  If anyone had been home, that’s most likely where they’d have been at this hour.  Fukumoto tended to start preparing dinner around this time when they ate in.  Though on nights when they ate out, the spies were usually scattered all across the building.  But no one was in the cafeteria.  Or their favorite lounge.  Or even the library which was another place they tended to gather together. 

            After coming to the conclusion that he was home alone, Sakuma made his way up to the dormitory, intending to hang up his suit jacket, and maybe even take off his tie.  It had been a long day at the General Staff Offices.  A long two days, actually.  Sakuma had pulled an all nighter there, because some new information about the Soviet Navy had come to light that had everyone in a tizzy.  Which meant paperwork.  And mistakes in paperwork.  And paperwork disappearing while other paperwork turned up where it wasn’t supposed to be.  Sakuma had a headache now.  Normally he would have remained dressed as he would for work at D-Agency, since technically the agency was his place of work too.  Normally he only dressed down after a shower, before he went to bed.  But today had been hell.  And D-Agency was . . . feeling a bit more like home these days.  He didn’t think the spies would do more than make a few teasing comments about him finally relaxing a bit around them.  And even those would be good natured, he knew.  He would never admit it to anyone from the General Staff Offices, but it was kind of nice . . . being on good terms with the spies.  They weren’t as bad as he’d first thought.  And it was always good to get along with people you had to live with.

            The voice that greeted him when he entered the dorm was familiar, but at the same time not. 

            “Tamagoyaki.  With grated radish.  Please.”

            “Miyoshi?” Sakuma asked incredulously.  Then without thinking, he reached out and hit the lightswitch.

            A blanket-wrapped lump was on the bed beside his own.  That bed had been empty for . . . about a month now.  Yuuki had sent Miyoshi on a classified mission that Sakuma had not been cleared to know the details of.  Now it seemed Miyoshi was back.  But his voice had sounded . . . wrong.

            The blanket-wrapped lump moved slowly.  Lethargically.  Miyoshi’s movements were like he was underwater, fully clothed, with weights holding him down, as he sat up, blinking against the light.  “Oh.  Sakuma-san.”

            Sakuma couldn’t help but stare.  He’d never seen Miyoshi like this before.  His skin had an unnatural pallor, except for his cheeks.  They were flushed, like he was feverish.  And his eyes had an odd sheen to them too.

            “Are you alright?  You look horrible,” said Sakuma.

            Wrong thing to say.

            Miyoshi bristled, like a cat that had just been splashed with cold water.  “You’re one to talk.  Did you sleep in that suit?  Or did you just roll all the way up the stairs to get that many wrinkles in it?  Not to mention those bags under your eyes.  And your hair is –” Miyoshi suddenly made a choking sound and broke off coughing.  He covered his mouth and turned away from Sakuma, like he was trying to hide what he was doing.  As though it was possible to hide something like that.

            “Are you alright?” asked Sakuma again, alarmed.  He spotted the water pitcher and hurried to it.  The only glass to be found was his own, but he quickly filled it anyway.  He doubted Miyoshi would care about drinking from the same glass as him when he was in this sort of state.

            Miyoshi nearly dropped the glass when Sakuma pressed it into his hand.  Sakuma had to hold onto it with him, to keep him from tipping it.  And even then, some of the water still spilled over the edges, as Miyoshi’s violent coughs made his hands rock.  But with Sakuma’s help, he managed to get the glass to his lips and start gulping down water.  Then his coughing subsided.

            “Are you alright?” asked Sakuma a third time.  Then, to amend what he’d first said to Miyoshi, and hopefully placate the vain spy, he added, “You look . . . under the weather?”

            “I am.  A bit,” admitted Miyoshi.  He seemed to take that as an apology.  Which Sakuma guessed was alright.  “It’s not unusual for the body to lapse into illness after leaving an extremely stressful situation, and entering an extremely relaxed one.  Considering how you look right now, you should be wary of the same thing happening to you.”

            Sakuma wouldn’t ever call D-Agency an extremely relaxing situation.  But he was worried that arguing about that might make Miyoshi mad, so he decided not to comment on it.  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said instead.  Then, without thinking, he reached out to place his hand against Miyoshi’s forehead.  At least that was the intent.  Instead he found himself twisted over Miyoshi’s lap, the tendons in his wrist and elbow screaming as Miyoshi held him in an armlock.  “What are you doing?”

            “What are you doing?” demanded Miyoshi, releasing him and scooting back.

            “I thought you might have a fever.  I was checking.”

            “You should be able to tell just from the symptoms I’m sure are apparent by looking at me,” said Miyoshi.  “Or you could have simply asked me, and I could have told you.  Yes.  I have a fever.”

            “Where are all the others?” asked Sakuma as he rubbed his arm.  “They just left you here, knowing you were sick?  Or do they even know you’re back?”

            “They know,” said Miyoshi.  “But there was work to do.  Work I was unfit for in my condition, so I was exempt from it.  They should begin filtering back in shortly.  In fact, I thought you were Fukumoto, returning.  But only because I was half asleep when you opened the door, and you weigh enough to make the floorboards creak similarly to the way they creak beneath him.”

            Sakuma tried to recall what Miyoshi had said upon his arrival.  Tamagoyaki.  With grated radish.  He’d thought Fukumoto was coming to ask him what he wanted for dinner.

            “You’re hungry?” asked Sakuma.

            “More tired than anything,” said Miyoshi.  “I think I’ll try napping again –”

            Suddenly, Miyoshi was seized by another coughing fit.  In the midst of it the glass slipped out of his hand and flipped.  It had still been half full.  And all of the water that had been in it, ended up on Miyoshi, thoroughly soaking his shirt.  Sakuma seized the glass, too late to keep the initial disaster from happening, but in time to prevent it from getting crushed somehow and causing a hazard.  He set it on the bedside table, then instinctively put a hand on Miyoshi’s back, bracing him as he coughed and tried to bring himself back under control.

            “Are you alright?” Sakuma asked again.  “Can I get you anything?  More water?  Tea?”

            “No,” said Miyoshi.  Then he added, “Thank you.”

            Sakuma picked up the glass anyway, and filled it a third of the way with water, then set it down beside Miyoshi’s bed so that it was within his reach if he needed it.  Then he frowned, as he saw Miyoshi lay back down and start pulling his covers back over him.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Going back to sleep.”

            “But the front of your shirt is soaked.  And you’re sick,” said Sakuma.

            “I’m tired, Sakuma-san,” said Miyoshi, in a voice Sakuma had never heard him use before.  Miyoshi sounded bone weary.  Inexplicably, it made Sakuma feel like a hand was squeezing at his heart.

            “Then I’ll help you get it off,” said Sakuma.  “And get a new one on.”

            “That’s not necessary.”

            “It is.  If you’re sick you shouldn’t wear wet clothes.  Everyone knows that.”

            “I don’t have a spare night shirt.  I had to leave my luggage behind in – I was unable to bring it back from my mission with me.”

            Sakuma wondered what Miyoshi had been up to, but knew trying to quiz him about it would be pointless.  Even feverish, Miyoshi wouldn’t give up classified intelligence.  Besides, there was even a good chance that Miyoshi was trying to bait him into asking about his mission to distract him from the matter at hand.  But Sakuma would not be tricked.

            “I’m sure one of the others has a spare they wouldn’t mind loaning you.  In fact, I have one you can borrow,” said Sakuma.

            Miyoshi’s cheeks grew slightly redder, and Sakuma couldn’t help feeling concerned.  He wondered how sick Miyoshi really was, but knew that was an answer he wasn’t likely to get.

            “Thank you, Lieutenant, but I’m fine as I am,” said Miyoshi.

            “You’re not,” insisted Sakuma.  “When you’re sick, and you wear wet clothes, it just makes you more sick.”

            “That is a myth.  Simply wetting clothing does not make its wearer more susceptible to pathogens,” said Miyoshi.  “And I would really like to go back to sleep now so – what are you doing?”

            Sakuma had pulled Miyoshi out from under his covers and back into a sitting position.  Then he grabbed the bottom of Miyoshi’s shirt and pulled it up, over Miyoshi’s head, expecting it to come off, inside out, but still off.  He didn’t count on Miyoshi struggling.  Or Miyoshi having the nightshirt buttoned all the way up, so it wouldn’t come off easily.

            “Stop that,” Miyoshi insisted.  “Sakuma-san –”

            “You need to put on a dry shirt or else –”

            The dormitory door squeaked loudly on its creaky hinges, as it swung inward.  Both Sakuma and Miyoshi froze and turned toward the open door.  Belatedly, Sakuma realized the position they were in and how it could be misinterpreted.  He felt the blood rush to his face as he saw Hatano and Kaminaga standing in the doorway with wide eyes and startled expressions.

            “Gentlemen,” said Sakuma quickly.  “Let me assure you, this isn’t what it looks like –”

            “Someone help!” Hatano shouted.  “The lieutenant’s trying to force himself on Miyoshi!”  But despite the panicked tone of his voice, he made no move to do anything to intervene himself.  In fact, he was smirking slyly as he entered the dorm, heading to his own bed.

            Kaminaga didn’t seem inclined to intervene either, though unlike Hatano he did seem perturbed.

            “That’s not what’s happening!” said Sakuma quickly.  “Miyoshi’s shirt – the water – I didn’t – it was –”

            “I don’t want to hear about it,” said Kaminaga, holding up a hand to stop him.

            “Wha-”

            “Don’t mind him.  You just lost him a lot of money,” said Hatano cheerfully.  “See, there was an ongoing bet involving you, Miyoshi, and clothes being ripped off.”

            Sakuma gaped then shook his head.  “I don’t understand.”

            “Of course you don’t.”

            “I would consider it a personal favor if you were to enlighten him _later_ , and _somewhere else,”_ said Miyoshi dryly.  “I would like to go back to sleep.  Stop conspiring against me.  All of you.”

            “You’re not going to sleep until you change out of that wet shirt,” said Sakuma stubbornly.

            “Why’s his shirt wet?” asked Hatano interestedly, fixing Sakuma with an evil look.  His voice then took on a sing-song cajoling tone.  “What’d you do, Lieutenant?  What’d you do?”

            “I didn’t do anything!  Well, I guess I poured more water than perhaps I should have in the glass.  Miyoshi had a coughing fit.  It spilled –”

            “You’re not sleeping in a wet shirt when you’re feverish, Miyoshi,” said Kaminaga.  He was at his own bed, and proceeded to toss his own nightshirt to Miyoshi.  “The sooner you change it, the sooner we’ll let you go back to sleep.”

            Sakuma watched, annoyed, as Miyoshi began unbuttoning his night shirt then, and put on Kaminaga’s without any further protest.  It rankled that he would give in so easily when it was one of the other spies asking him to do something.  And Kaminaga hadn’t even given him a clean nightshirt, like Sakuma would have!  Kaminaga had last done laundry over the weekend . . . which meant he’d worn that shirt for four nights!  And Miyoshi preferred that to one of Sakuma’s clean night shirts?

            “You want us to wake you up for dinner?” asked Hatano, after retrieving a book from the footlocker under his bed.  “Fukumoto’s making seafood stew.”

            Perhaps it was Sakuma’s imagination, but Miyoshi seemed to go a bit paler, and looked slightly more nauseous.

            “No thank you,” said Miyoshi.  “I really just need sleep.”

            “Then we’ll leave you to it,” said Kaminaga.

            Sakuma followed the unspoken order, and left the room with Kaminaga and Hatano.  Once they made it to the stairs, he heard more sounds of life from downstairs.  Most of the others had returned, it seemed.  Wonderful.  Amari even met them on the stairs.

            “What’s this I hear about the lieutenant forcing himself on Miyoshi?”

            Sakuma sighed.  It was going to be one of those nights, then.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Fukumoto’s seafood stew was heavy, but delicious.  A bowl was saved for Miyoshi, in case he woke up later and changed his mind, but Sakuma couldn’t help but remember that nauseated look on his face when the topic of the stew had come up.  Heavy as it was, and with so many strong flavors, Sakuma could see how it might not be too appealing to someone who was sick.

            It was for that reason that, about an hour after dinner, he found himself back in the kitchen, cracking eggs and wisking them in a bowl, while he let a rectangular-shaped frying pan heat up on the stove.  Sakuma was no Fukumoto in the kitchen, but he could make a few things.  Tamagoyaki was one of those things.  The ingredients for it were simple, even if the cooking process itself was a bit tricky.  Sakuma was a little bit out of practice, but he thought it came out mostly alright.  He was sure it would have been neater if Fukumoto had made it, but it would taste just fine.  And grating radishes was easy enough.  Sakuma did those last, while the tamagoyaki itself had a chance to cool a little bit.  Then he put them all in a bowl, with rice, and covered it to keep it from getting too cool. 

            Then, before he could talk himself out of it, or worry about what the other spies were going to say when they found out (and they were going to find out, Sakuma knew, there was no if about it) he started up the stairs, toward the dorm. 

            He tried to open the dorm room door as quietly as he could, because he knew Miyoshi might be asleep.  But that door always squeaked horribly.  Sakuma suspected it was that way as a safety measure for the sleeping spies, but had never asked.  He tried not to give them ample opportunities to insult his intelligence.

            Miyoshi was still curled up on his bed when Sakuma’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room.  He saw that there were now more blankets on top of the sick spy than there had been before.  Likely the others piling them on rather than Miyoshi getting out of bed and pilfering them.  But Miyoshi had turned over to look Sakuma’s way.  Most likely he could only see Sakuma as a silhouette against the light from the hallway, but this time he seemed to know exactly who he was facing.

            “Going to bed early, lieutenant?” asked Miyoshi, his voice only slightly raspy from his cough.  “Let me guess.  It’s been a long two days for you.”

            “How did you know?” asked Sakuma.  “No, let me guess.  It’s because you got back yesterday, and noticed I didn’t sleep here.  Plus my appearance . . . that probably suggested I’d pulled an all nighter.”

            “Amongst other things,” said Miyoshi.  Then he pulled his covers tighter around himself and closed his eyes.

            “I . . . actually came to see if you were awake.  And if you were hungry,” said Sakuma.  “I brought some food in case you were.  Tamagoyaki.”

            Miyoshi opened his eyes.  Then he slowly sat up in bed.  Sakuma took that as an affirmative and stepped inside the dorm.

            “Do you want the light on?”

            “No thank you,” said Miyoshi.

            Of course he’s fine eating in near total darkness, Sakuma thought, with a feeling of mild annoyance.  He handed off the bowl to Miyoshi, trying not to scowl, then refilled the glass of water by Miyoshi’s bed, noticing it was empty.

            Miyoshi removed the cover from the dish and held the chopsticks Sakuma had brought along in his hand, but didn’t start eating.  Maybe letting his eyes adjust to see the food better?  Sakuma didn’t know.

            “Fukumoto didn’t make this,” said Miyoshi after several seconds.

            “Can you really see it that well?” asked Sakuma, belatedly realizing he should be glad that Miyoshi was eating this in the dark.  That way he couldn’t see that it was rather, well, messy.  Not as neatly made and rolled as the perfect tamagoyaki Fukumoto always made.  And Sakuma hadn’t done the neatest job of cutting it either.  But he’d done his best, dammit!

            “I can see the contrast of the egg against the rice,” said Miyoshi.  “Not well, but enough to identify what is what.  But I know it’s not Fukumoto’s tamagoyaki because of the smell.  You used different seasonings.”

            “I just made it the way I knew how,” groused Sakuma.

            “I didn’t say you did anything wrong,” said Miyoshi.  “I was just confirming what I suspected.”

            Sakuma flushed, suddenly embarrassed.  And glad for the cover of the darkness.  “Er, well I just figured seafood stew might not be so great for someone who’s sick.  When I’m not feeling well, just the thought of shrimp – oh, I should probably not talk about it.  Sorry.”

            “It’s alright.”  Miyoshi used the chopsticks to lift a piece of the tamagoyaki to his mouth, blew on it once to make sure it would be cool enough, then he popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly.

            Sakuma watched, waiting anxiously for his verdict.  Even though he knew deep down that there was only one answer Miyoshi would give him.  Because, despite often picking on Sakuma, and using him as the butt of their jokes, the spies did have a modicum of manners.  Sakuma didn’t think them so low that if someone went out of their way to do something nice for them when they were feeling ill that they would respond with something other than politeness.  So no matter how average or substandard his tamagoyaki was, unless it was completely unpalatable, Miyoshi’s response would be the same.

            “It’s good,” said Miyoshi at last.  “Thank you, Sakuma-san.  I –”

            “Sakuma-san?” Amari had appeared in the doorway.  The tone he spoke in was urgent.  “Run.  Hide.  Right now.”

            Sakuma stared at him.  “What?”

            “Fukumoto’s frying pan.  You left it on the heat,” said Amari urgently.

            “No, I turned the stove off –”

            “That doesn’t matter,” said Amari.  “The stove doesn’t immediately turn cold the moment you turn it off.  And if you leave a pan on it, then whatever’s in the pan keeps cooking.  Which means that Fukumoto’s favorite tamagoyaki pan is now encrusted with charred egg.  I don’t think you’ve ever seen him mad.  But screwing with his cooking equipment is the fastest way to push him over the edge.”

            “Sakuma-san,” said Miyoshi, and waited until Sakuma looked at him.  Even in the dim light, Sakuma could see that Miyoshi’s eyes had gone wide.  “Run.  Save yourself.”

            Sakuma looked back and forth between them doubtfully.  “How bad could –”

            “Sakuma-san!” Jitsui had appeared.  “Odagiri and Tazaki are holding Fukumoto off.  But they won’t be able to forever.  Especially not with Hatano and Kaminaga egging him on.  Please follow me, right now.  We need to get you out of here.”

            It was that sincere look from gentle, ever-polite Jitsui that finally convinced Sakuma.  He gave Miyoshi one last look.  Miyoshi nodded and confirmed it.  “Go.”

            Sakuma fled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Miyoshi waited until he knew Sakuma was definitely out of hearing range.  Then he waited a bit longer.  Then he started gagging and spitting into the bowl that Sakuma had given him.  Amari patted him sympathetically on the back and held the glass of water Sakuma had poured out to him.

            “Thank you,” rasped Miyoshi.  “You probably saved my life.”

            “Thank Yoru.  He was the one who sensed the danger.  We heard him meyowling in the kitchen, and went in to investigate.  He was standing over the extras, hissing and spitting.  It didn’t take us long to put together what had happened.”

            Miyoshi grimaced and let Amari take the bowl from him.  He accepted the water and gulped at it, washing the taste of Sakuma’s abomination out of his mouth.  “I’ll admit, having a family cat has been a little useful.”

            Amari covered the bowl back up and patted Miyoshi on top of the head.  “Don’t worry about Sakuma-san making any more attempts at being domestic.  Fukumoto has agreed to have a talk with him.  A scary talk.  One that will keep him out of the kitchen permanently.  But you know . . . you could have just told him how horrible his cooking was, and saved yourself.”

            “After he went out of his way to make it for me, that would have been the height of rudeness,” said Miyoshi stiffly.

            “It could also be considered self preservation,” said Amari.  “And just so you know, every single one of us called that you would eat that poison rather than insult the lieutenant.  You really are getting too soft on him.”

            “It was just a moment of weakness, caused by illness,” Miyoshi defended himself, and laid back down.  “Now, please leave me to my misery.”

            “Still so prickly,” said Amari with a sigh.  “I’d say it’s good to have you home, but –”

            “Leave.”

            “Right.”

 

* * *

 

 

Notes: This chapter was a gift for Aoi_Kitsukawa who requested a follow up to Chapter 5: The Perfect Recipe, in which Miyoshi got sick, got taken care of by Sakuma, and requested a dish while half asleep, which Sakuma then made for him.  With a side of gossiping and teasing from the other spies.  I hope this delivers. :)

 

 


	16. Tearing Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D-Agency’s (un)official big brother to the rescue!

            It was the whimper that caught Amari’s attention.  Because sounds of vulnerability were extremely rare in D-Agency.  Even with the hellish admissions tests over, and their final examination passed.  The competition to see who would be among the last men left standing was over.  But in some ways, the competition would never be over.  It was ingrained in them all now to show no weakness.  Before, their fellow trainees would have used it against them mercilessly, to try to get them cut.  Now, their fellow spies would use it against them mercilessly, to toughen them up.  But that kind of went against the grain for Amari.  He could be cutthroat when he had to.  And he’d had to during training quite a bit.  But they were out of it now, and those who were left would be living together for the foreseeable future.  He thought they should try to get along and support each other.  Not to mention, he liked all the men who’d made the final cut.  So it was with the best of intentions that he followed the soft sounds of distress.  For that one whimper had turned into a series of delicate sobs. 

            It was coming from the dormitory, Amari quickly realized.  He opened the door as carefully as he could, but the hinges squeaked horribly, as they always did.  He heard another slight whimper.  Then silence.

            Undeterred, Amari strode into the dorms, looking around.  At first glance, they were empty.  But then he noticed a slight movement on the other side of the room, near the shared closet where they all hung their suits.  Hunched at the bottom of the full length mirror Miyoshi had hung up, was Jitsui, curled up with his face in his hands, clearly in distress.

            “Jitsui?” Amari asked softly.  “Are –”  He stopped himself just in time from asking a stupid question like, ‘Are you alright?’  It was plain to see that Jitsui was clearly not alright.  And asking pointless questions, unless you were trying to make small talk and blend in, had been drilled out of Amari during training.  So instead he asked, “What can I do, Jitsui?  Is there some way I can help you?”

            Jitsui looked up, and it took every ounce of Amari’s willpower not to cringe, because Jitsui . . . that boy looked so beautifully tragic, it was like a stab to the heart.  His eyes were luminous with tears, his cheeks flushed, and tears were streaming down his face.  Amari had never seen Jitsui like this before.  Among the final eight, Jitsui had one of the coolest heads.  His control was amazing.  Amari had seen him take blistering insults without twitching, and endure being shoved around and elbowed by older, less intelligent trainees for weeks before retaliating in ingenious ways that let him get his revenge with impunity.  Seeing him broken and sobbing now just felt wrong on so many levels, and Amari wondered if it was even within his power to do anything for Jitsui now.  Maybe he should offer to make him some tea, then go frantically search for Hatano while the water was boiling?

            “A-Amari . . .” Jitsui’s voice broke on his name and Amari felt another stab to the heart.

            “Hey,” Amari said, approaching him slowly and cautiously, like he would a wounded animal.  When he grew close enough, he knelt down beside him. 

            “I can’t do it, Amari,” said Jitsui, eyes over-bright like glass.

            “Can’t do what?” Amari asked gently.

            “I can’t figure out how to cry without my face turning red.”

            “Uh . . . ?”

            Jitsui closed his eyes and shook his head.  Then when he opened his eyes, they were normal.  A little red around the edges from prolonged crying, but completely clear and calm.  “Hatano and I have been practicing,” he explained coolly.  “We both realize that Lt. Colonel Yuuki recruited us for our youth.  Which, combined with our looks, make us seem vulnerable, and can spark protective urges in the people around us.  To better manipulate them, we’ve been practicing.  Testing out how wide to make our eyes for maximum sympathy, and which angles we should tilt our heads at to come across as cute as possible, and how to cry adorably.  But I’ve run into a problem that Hatano doesn’t have.  He can cry beautifully, without his face flushing at all, when he wants to.  But whenever I do more than simply tear up, my cheeks turn red.”

            “Oh . . .” said Amari.  How the hell was he supposed to respond to that?

            Then Jitsui blinked again, and suddenly his eyes were oh so glassy once more.  His lower lip trembled as he looked up at Amari.  “Comfort me?” he requested.

            Amari nodded, then reached out to pat him on top of the head.  “There, there.”  Then, deciding that he might as well go all in, he pulled Jitsui to him and hugged the younger man.  “It will be okay.  I’m positive that you can still melt hearts, even with those cherry cheeks of yours.  Hey, I know what will make you feel better!”

            Jitsui sniffled softly.  “What?” he asked tearfully.

            “Crossing paths with Fukumoto,” suggested Amari.  “He’s about to leave to go to the market.  If he gets so much as a glance at you, looking like this, he’s guaranteed to make your favorites for dinner.”

            Jitsui stared up at Amari wide eyed for several long seconds, milking the drama for all it was worth.  Then he nodded slowly and rubbed at one eye, folding his fingers in a way that made his hand look paw-like, like a cat’s.

            “Come on,” said Amari, helping Jitsui up, then slinging an arm around his shoulders protectively, keeping him close.  “Let’s go downstairs.  How about I make you some tea?”

            “You just want Fukumoto to see you being nice to me so he’ll make one of your favorites too,” Jitsui whimpered, but nestled up against Amari’s side like he was seeking comfort.

            “Guilty,” admitted Amari.  “Now let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Notes: It is a fact that when Jitsui cries, sparkly, glittery special effects light up the air around him, as irises begin blooming in the background. 


	17. Fighting Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in training, Tazaki had problems fighting dirty. Hatano had a solution.

            “Your problem,” Hatano deemed, looking at Tazaki critically, "is that you’re too nice.  We need to break that, and you need to learn to fight dirty.”

            “Alright,” Tazaki agreed.  He’d come to Hatano for help, after all.  After Miyoshi subtly suggested it, or at least led him to think it would be a good idea.  Tazaki could recognize when he was being led, just as he could recognize when he was falling behind.  Which he was, in hand to hand combat, which baffled Tazaki, because he’d always been so good at fencing.

            “Fencing has kind of ruined you for this,” said Hatano, as though he could read Tazaki’s thoughts as he tapped his own chin.  “All that nonsense about fighting honorably, and in a straight line.  I’ve heard of it taking years to cure fighters of this nonsense when they want to learn real fighting.  But we don’t have that kind of time, so we’re going to have to do something drastic.”

            “Alright,” repeated Tazaki, though he was starting to feel a little nervous.  He’d seen what Hatano considered run of the mill.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Hatano considered drastic.

            “Alright.  This may sound a little crazy, but I think it’s going to work,” said Hatano finally.  “Come closer.”

            Tazaki obeyed, albeit tensely, ready for a sneak attack from the shorter, younger trainee.  But none came.  He stopped when he was directly in front of Hatano, facing him squarely.

            “Okay.  Stand right there,” Hatano said solemnly.  “Look me in the eye.  And spit in my face.”

            “What?” asked Tazaki incredulously.

            “You heard me.”

            “I think I just heard you tell me to spit in your face.” Tazaki couldn’t have heard right.  Hatano wouldn’t . . .

            “Yes.  That is what I said,” said Hatano.  “Now do it.”

            “I’m not going to spit in your face, Hatano,” said Tazaki, shaking his head.  “I respect you too much for –”

            “You’re going to, Tazaki, because that’s the only way you’re going to learn to fight dirty enough, fast enough to keep you from getting cut,” snapped Hatano.  “Now spit in my face.”

            “Hatano – I – er –”

            “It seems like a legitimate training exercise to me,” said Miyoshi.  “You have a block.  Hatano’s method seems like it will quickly remove that block.”

            “I can’t just go up to someone and spit in their face,” said Tazaki, still appalled by the very idea.  “I asked him for help –”

            “Then you should listen to his advice.”

            “I respect him.  I like him,” Tazaki admitted, though he gave Hatano a slightly nervous glance when he admitted this, not sure what Hatano’s reaction would be to this.  “He’s doing me a favor.  I can’t just –”

            “Miyoshi, come spit in my face,” demanded Hatano.  “Show Tazaki how it’s done.  We’ll peer pressure him into it, if we have to.”

            Miyoshi smirked, then stepped forward.  Tazaki watched, half in disbelief, not really believing that someone as elegant and dignified as Miyoshi would stoop so low.  But lo and behold, Miyoshi took Hatano’s chin in one hand, turned the smaller boy’s face up toward him . . . and then spat right in his face. 

            “See?  Like that,” said Hatano, twisting back to face Tazaki, with Miyoshi’s saliva still on his cheek.  “Now it’s your turn.”

            “Hatano . . .”

            “It’s okay, Tazaki.  It’s for training and you have my permission,” said Hatano, almost earnestly. 

            Tazaki grimaced then stepped closer.  Then, mustering every ounce of his will, he wet his lips, then spat at Hatano.  Then he met Hatano’s eyes and cringed at the half-lidded look the younger trainee was giving him. 

            “What the hell was that?” asked Hatano scornfully.  “You trying to kiss me without making contact?”

            “I’ve never seen someone spit so politely before,” Miyoshi commented.

            “Do it again!” ordered Hatano.  “This time spit at me like you hate me!  Like your spit is acid and is going to melt my face off!  Now!”

            Tazaki obeyed.  His saliva hit Hatano right in the mouth and dribbled down his chin.  Hatano wiped it away with his sleeve.

            “Better.  Now, again.”

            “How many times do you want me to spit in your face?” Tazaki asked, still not quite able to believe this was his training.

            “As many times as it takes until you get over your nonsense way of thinking that fighting should be chivalrous,” said Hatano.  “Fights are messy and desperate, and if you want to win, you have to be willing to sink as low as necessary.  Even if that means spitting in another man’s face, or ripping a woman’s earrings right of out her earlobes.”

            Tazaki cringed.

            “Don’t cringe!  If this is how you act at the mere mention of that, how are you possibly going to get through the next exercise?” demanded Hatano.

            “What is the next exercise?” Tazaki asked wearily.

            “Groin shots,” Hatano said matter of factly.

            Tazaki’s jaw nearly came unhinged.  “You’re not seriously going to –”

            “Order you to kick me in the groin?” asked Hatano.  “Yes I am.  But like I said, that’s next lesson, after your worthless chivalry has been corroded.  But for now, we’re still on lesson one.  And we need to get back to lesson one.  So go on.  Spit in my face.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Just imagine Jitsui walking in on this training . . .  Or any of the others walking in on Tazaki spitting in Hatano’s face, without having any context for it, lol.  Sakuma . . . Yuuki . . . Amari . . .  But especially Jitsui.  Just imagine . . . :)

 

My first update of the year.  :)  Sorry that updates have been slow lately.  The holiday season hit me hard at work, lol.  And also, I’ve been working on another creative project with a couple friends (a few who are also from this fandom) that we’re launching in February.  It’s not exactly Joker Game related, but it is the sort of thing I think people from this fandom can appreciate. :)  If you have any interest in learning more details about it, leave me a line.  When we launch the project, we’re opening it up to everyone: writers, artists, and people who just like to read good stories and look at fun pics. 


	18. Eat It Or Wear It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How D-Agency deals with picky eaters.

            “Wake up, Hatano-nii!  Hatano-nii!  Wake up!”

            His daughter’s sweet voice, or rather, the words she was shouting, sent a wave of dread through Amari.  Those were words one simply did not say in D-Agency.  And especially did not shout.  Not since Hatano had come back from France recovering from successive head injuries, and Yuuki-san had grown extremely protective of him.  And as everyone living there now knew, Hatano was now prone to bouts of head injury induced lethargy.  And bothering him about them in any form was forbidden, under pain of extreme physical conditioning.  Emma, young as she was, would not likely be forced to swim in the ocean, at night, in these winter months, but that did not mean there would be no consequences if Yuuki found out she had woken Hatano up.

            So Amari began running.  And mentally calculating the damage his daughter might be doing.  If Hatano was asleep at this hour, in the late afternoon, chances were high that it was related to his head injury.  Which meant trouble if Yuuki found out she was trying to wake him.  Which he would.  Because Yuuki-san knew all.  But if Emma didn’t actually manage to wake him, the consequences wouldn’t be as dire.  If she did, however, wake Hatano up from his head injury induced sleep, the consequences would be dire.  For Amari.  Because he was supposed to be her guardian.

            “Hatano-nii!  You promised you’d make me quiche for dinner!  Wake up!” Emma was insistent. 

            “Emma!” Amari called softly as he ran, hoping that maybe he could do some damage control.  “Emma-chan, come here please!”

            Emma either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him.  “Hatano-nii!  Wake up!”

            Jitsui appeared, a with a thunderous look on his face.  Not that any normal person would have known just how furious an expression that was on him, he looked so sweet.  And Amari knew he could kiss goodbye any chance of Yuuki-san not hearing about this.

            The two of them reached the living room just as Emma achieved what she’d set out to do.  Unknownst to them, she had been pulling Hatano off of the sofa he’d fallen asleep on.  They entered right as she succeeded in pulling him off of it, and sending him crashing to the floor.  Thankfully, the sofa was not too high off the ground.  But Amari still winced at the sound Hatano’s body made as it thunked against the floor, and his heart started hammering as Jitsui flew forward, the same thought on both of their minds.  _What if he hit his head?_

            “Hatano?” Jitsui asked frantically, but before he reached his friend, Hatano was already stirring groggily.

            “Whhaaaa?” he slurred, looking more asleep than awake. 

            Jitsui slid on the floor, on his knees, risking ruining the trousers of his suit, so he could gather Hatano into his arms faster and start inspecting his head, looking for bumps or bruising.  And confused, Hatano just slumped into his arms, since staying upright was clearly too difficult.  Emma, meanwhile, jumped up and down impatiently.

            “You promised you’d make me quiche tonight, Hatano-nii!  It’s time to start now!”

            “Control your child, Amari,” Jitsui said, his voice as cold as ice.  _Or else_ , was strongly implied.

            “I dun undersssstan . . .” Caught in the grips of head injury induced exhaustion, it seemed that Hatano could only be so coherent.  But thankfully, it just seemed to be exhaustion.  Jitsui wasn’t freaking out further over finding any damage to Hatano’s head, so hopefully that’s all it was.

            Amari hurried forward and snatched up Emma, and scurried to get her out of the living room.  Because an explosion seemed imminent.  Emma had begun shrieking and Jitsui was looking at her so angelically.  Like Angel of Death angelically.  Oh yes, Amari needed to get her far from here.  Now.

            He carried her down the stairs, and to the cafeteria, wondering if there were any leftover sweets or food she did like that he could use to placate her.  Thankfully, Fukumoto was the only one in the cafeteria when they arrived.  He was in the kitchen part, getting out ingredients to prepare for dinner.  He looked up in concern, since Emma’s tantrum was in full swing now, but didn’t stop what he was doing.  Which was good.  Amari did not want to be responsible for dinner being delayed or subpar.  He had the feeling he was going to catch enough trouble for this already, as it was.

            “Emma . . . Emma-chan, you need to calm down,” said Amari, softly, but sternly.  “Emma, you know you’re not supposed to wake up Hatano-nii when he’s sleeping.”

            “But he’s supposed to make me quiche!  He said he’d make me quiche tonight!  He promised, and it’s time to start and if he doesn’t I’ll have to eat the bad food!” Emma cried.  “I want quiche!”

            “Emma, sweetie, I’m sorry, but Hatano can’t make it for you tonight,” said Amari.  “He’s not feeling well, and you know it’s important not to wake him up when he’s sleeping.  It makes me sad that you would do that anyway.”

            “But I want quiche!  I want it, Papa!”

            “But you’ll be okay without it,” Amari tried to reason with her.  “And Fukumoto is making instead . . .” Amari looked at Fukumoto for help.

            “Braised tofu, with sweetened soy sauce,” said Fukumoto, smiling gently at Emma.  “With steamed sweet peas as a side dish.  I was lucky at the market today.”

            “I hate sweet peas and I hate tofu!  I want quiche!”

            Amari put his hand over his eyes and shook his head.  Most of the time, Emma was a sweet, precious jewel, as mild mannered as she was cute, and she was extremely cute.  But when it came to food . . . she was a picky eater.  And, very problematically, she was not a fan of the Japanese cuisine. 

            Amari had learned from both his classes, and his time abroad, that Western cuisine was very different from Japanese cuisine.  Plain rice was rarely served in England.  And soy sauce was rarely used except in dishes meant to imitate Asian dishes.  Emma didn’t like either.  But unfortunately, rice was served at almost every meal in D-Agency, and soy sauce was used in almost every dish. 

            Emma had been lucky thus far, because Hatano spoiled her rotten.  He’d learned how to cook French cuisine during his own mission abroad, and the skills he’d brought back were inarguable more useful than the child and dog Amari had brought back.  But to each his own.  And it worked out well, because Hatano liked Emma, and though he didn’t like cooking for large groups, didn’t mind making things just for her.  Even with shortages of all types of food that were becoming more and more common, Hatano still somehow managed to find what he needed to cook a wide variety of dishes.  Some of the things he found had almost assuredly been smuggled into the country and bought on the black market, and how Hatano had an in on those dealings was a mystery, but Yuuki-san had to know, and hadn’t put a stop to it so far, so Amari thought it was okay.  And he was grateful.  Without his assistance, pleasing Emma would have been so much more difficult.

            Like right now.  Amari felt helpless and inadequate as the child he’d taken in, and vowed to raise as his own pitched the biggest tantrum he’d ever seen her pitch thus far.

            “Fukumoto,” he asked helplessly.  “Do you know how to make quiche?”

            Fukumoto frowned and shook his head.  “Sorry . . . the pastry crust for it is complicated.”

            “I can make it,” said Jitsui, entering the cafeteria.

            Amari blinked.  “You?”

            “Me,” Jitsui agreed.

            “ . . .” Fukumoto said nothing.

            “I’ve spent enough time around Hatano while he was cooking,” said Jitsui.  “I can emulate his cooking skills, well enough.”

            Normally, warning bells would have been going off in Amari’s head.  He already knew Jitsui was not happy with Emma right now.  Truth be told, Jitsui had never been too happy about Emma’s presence at D-Agency.  In large part because Emma had vowed to marry Hatano for his cooking skills, but that was another can of worms.  But right now, all Amari saw was an out.  A way to placate Emma, and fix this situation.

            He really should have known better.

 

* * *

 

 

            By the time dinner rolled around, Emma had mostly calmed down.  At least until she saw the dish that Jitsui put before her.

            “That’s not quiche!”

            “It is quiche,” said Jitsui.  “It’s tofu and pea quiche.”

            “That’s not real quiche!”

            Emma might have begun to pitch another fit right then and there, but Yuuki had joined them at the table tonight, and even when she was in a mood, Emma wouldn’t cross Yuuki-san so lightly.  Moreover, the chair next to Jitsui was conspicuously empty.  It seemed that Hatano had fallen back to sleep and still had not woken.  And Emma knew that she had been very bad, waking him up when he was “sick from his head hurting,” which was how they had explained it to her.  She had spent the last half hour before dinner drawing him a picture of a pony and some flowers to apologize.  Even so, Emma knew that wouldn’t fix everything and that Yuuki was still not happy with her about that, even though Amari was punishing her by restricting her time with her favorite doll to one hour a day, and at sleep time only.  And everyone knew that Yuuki’s mood took a turn for the dark when Hatano showed any signs of his old injuries.

            “It is real quiche,” said Jitsui, calmly.

            “It’s not!”

            “Quiche is a savory egg custard baked in a crust.  This is savory egg custard baked in a crust.”

            Looking closer at the dish, even though Amari was ninety-eight percent sure Jitsui wouldn’t serve Emma anything that would harm her, the crust that Jitsui had lined the pan with to bake his quiche in seemed to be bread crust, instead of the buttery, flaky pastry that Hatano was able to masterfully produce.  And the interior did seem to be perfectly edible.  But as far as he could tell, it was runny scrambled eggs with chunks of tofu and lots and lots of peas mixed in.  More a casserole than a quiche. 

            “I’m not going to eat it,” Emma said defiantly.

            Jitsui flashed her his angel smile.  “Then starve.”

            Emma turned to Amari with big eyes.  Wanting him to fix this for her.  And Amari really wanted to.  But there wasn’t much he could do.

            “Emma, honey,” he said gently.  “That’s the best quiche Jitsui could make for you.  And it doesn’t look too bad.  But if you’d rather have braised tofu and steamed sweet peas, and rice like everyone else, you can.  But those are the only things we have for dinner.”

            “But I don’t like them,” Emma said.  “Can’t I have something else?”

            “Um . . .” Amari thought fast.  There was probably still some bread.  “What about toast and scrambled eggs?”

            “No.”  It wasn’t Emma who spoke, but Yuuki.  All eyes were instantly drawn to their leader.  “She’ll eat what Jitsui made for her.  And this is the last time anyone makes special food for her.  From now on, she’ll eat what the rest of us eat, or she won’t eat at all.

            “But . . . but I don’t like it!” Emma protested.  She used her indoor voice this time.  She wasn’t quite brave or angry enough to shout at Yuuki . . . yet.

            “It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not.  Jitsui took the time to make it for you.  Fukumoto works hard to make meals for us every day.  And food is growing too scarce in this country to waste it.  You will eat what Jitsui made for you,” Yuuki said sternly.

            “I won’t,” said Emma defiantly.

            “You will eat it,” said Yuuki.  “Or you will wear it.”

            What?  Wear it?

            Amari looked at the other spies to see their reactions to this, and they looked as confused as he did, but infinitely more amused.  So yes, they suspected what Amari also suspected Yuuki meant.  Emma, however, just looked confused.

            Amari turned to his daughter, hoping to avoid the worst possible outcome.  “Emma, dear.  Please eat it.  You don’t want to go to bed hungry, do you?”

            “I want scrambled eggs and toast!”

            “You can have those for breakfast tomorrow,” promised Amari.  “But Jitsui’s quiche is what you have to eat for dinner tonight.”

            “I won’t!”

            “Emma . . .”

            “Enough,” Yuuki said sharply.  “All of you, eat your dinner.  No more pointless talking.”

            It wasn’t common at all for them to eat in silence at D-Agency.  There was almost always chatter, often in several different languages, so they could stay in practice.  Nothing of too great of importance was discussed, so most of their talking was light hearted.  Forced silence was something new.  Amari wondered if this awkwardness was how it felt in big families, when one unruly child’s bad behavior caused their father to make them all eat in silence.  The idea was humorous . . . in a slightly hysterical way.

            Amari couldn’t help but grow more and more nervous as the meal dragged on, and the food began vanishing from everyone else’s plates but Emma’s.  His daughter sat in her seat defiantly, arms crossed, glaring at the pseudo-quiche in front of her, refusing to touch it.

            Presently, the others began to finish up their own meals.  But rather than clearing their dishes away and leaving, they stayed in their seats, watching and waiting in silence.  Perhaps because it felt wrong to leave without asking for permission, with things being so tense tonight.  But more likely because they wanted to stick around and see what happened next. 

            Yuuki-san himself ate slowly.  Amari wasn’t sure if that was a blessing, or a curse.  No.  He knew.  It was definitely a curse.  Because Emma wasn’t changing her mind about not eating Jitsui’s quiche.  If there was even the possibility of her changing her mind, Yuuki eating slowly would have been a blessing.  But now, Amari already knew that Emma had a mile wide stubborn streak.  It seemed she’d inherited the same determination that her mother had.  The sort of determination that it took to betray her home country and hunt down the man who’d arranged her husband’s death in the name of patriotism, but really for his own advancement.  Someday, Amari was sure it would be put to excellent use, leading Emma to become maybe a world famous actress, or perhaps even a spy, despite the vigorous requirements that the leader of D-Agency, or whichever of his proteges replaced him, would demand.  But that day was not today.  Right now her stubbornness would be to her detriment.  And Yuuki eating slowly only prolonged the inevitable, tormenting them all . . . or drawing out the anticipation for the others.

            But finally, Yuuki finished.  And stood up.  The others watched, all silent, eyes gleaming with interest as Yuuki limped around the table with the aid of his cane, to where Emma sat at one of the table’s corners.

            “You have one final chance.  Eat it,” Yuuki said coldly.

            And for a second, just a second, Amari saw Emma waver and thought that just maybe she would give in.  But then her defiant streak surfaced and her lower lip jutted out.  She glared up at Yuuki and told him, very simply, “No.”

            Then Yuuki lifted the quiche, in its pie tin, with his uninjured hand, and held it over Emma’s head.  And Emma watched, eyes up, still defiant, still not understanding.  Not even when Yuuki flipped the dish over and the entire mess fell right into Emma’s face and hair.

            “Then wear it.”

            It took Emma a moment to understand what had happened.  She flinched and closed her eyes on reflex, to keep the food from getting in them.  And she wiped her eyes on reflex as well, the same way anyone who has water splashed in their face instinctively does, to keep it from dripping in and stinging their eyes.  But then, when she opened her eyes, she still didn’t quite understand.  She stared at the runny scrambled eggs, peas, and chunks of tofu stuck to her hands, then looked up and around at the spies who were watching with varying degrees of amusement.  Or in Amari’s case horror.

            It was Miyoshi who started laughing first.  And he could have held back from laughing if he’d wanted to.  They all could have, Amari knew.  And Tazaki, Fukumoto, and Odagiri did hold back.  But . . . he couldn’t exactly blame Miyoshi for laughing, or Jitsui for joining in.  Emma made a very funny sight, with runny scrambled eggs, peas, and chunks of tofu plastered to her face and hair, and crowning off the ensemble was a whole slice of bread stuck to the very top of her head.

            It was the laughter that pushed Emma over the edge.  She threw back her head and started screaming and howling.  And Yuuki, as though her screams didn’t affect him at all, set the quiche plate down on the table, and began limping stoically away.

            The cafeteria door opened right before Yuuki reached it.  Hatano stepped in, dressed in his sleep clothes, and looking a bit tired, but much better than earlier that afternoon.  His expression, however, was just as baffled, and he stood aside and held the door open, both for Yuuki to exit, and for Amari, who’d picked up Emma, with the intention of hurrying her away to the bathroom to get her cleaned up.

            “What did I miss?” Amari heard Hatano ask the others, as he hurried away, but only because Emma had to pause for a breath between screams.

 

* * *

 

 

Notes: So . . . lol?  Maybe?  Hopefully?  For the record, this was not written to bash Emma.  Hopefully no one wants to flay me for showing one of her bratty moments.  Most of the time I write her as being cute and sweet, and agonize over every scene she’s in, about how to write her being cute without making her a Mini Sue.  But I wanted to experiment with writing her defiant side, because I think we all know that at some point every child, even the cutest of them, has their bratty moments. 

 

Hopefully Jitsui and Yuuki weren’t too mean.  But if you look at what Jitsui’s fed to the other spies, in comparison his quiche for Emma is positively tame.  And Yuuki didn’t actually hurt Emma, just her dignity.  :P

 


End file.
